


Yom Kippur

by Teresa_C



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Gen, post-horseman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-28
Updated: 2008-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-02 03:51:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teresa_C/pseuds/Teresa_C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>MacLeod's having real trouble dealing with Methos's Horseman past. Methos isn't enjoying it, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Yom Kippur

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers: None of these characters are mine. MacLeod, Methos, Joe, and the Highlander universe belong either to Panzer/Davis, Gaumont, or Rysher - I don't know who owns what, I just know it's not me. I mean no harm, I make no money.
> 
> Most importantly, the character of David Grossman belongs to Sandra McDonald, used here by permission. I met him in her story "The Victories We Claim," and I found him so compelling a character that I was inspired to write what could be called fanfic of fanfic. Thank you so much, Sandra, for being so generous with my borrowing your character and for your so-helpful betaing all those years ago when these stories were first written.
> 
> This was originally "published" as a trilogy, "Yom Kippur," "Communion," and "Kaddish."
> 
> This is set shortly after Revelations 6:8, back in Seacouver.

"You expecting someone, MacLeod?" Methos asked, tensing.

MacLeod also felt the presence of an approaching immortal. He shook his head at Methos, who lounged on a barstool farther down the bar. He wasn't concerned about whom the new arrival might be. He only hoped it would force the ever-cautious Methos to leave. MacLeod found the older immortal's presence irritating.

He had told Methos their friendship was over, even before Bordeaux, but after the deaths of the other Horsemen Methos had refused to vanish from MacLeod's life, and MacLeod hadn't quite found the strength to tell him to go, again.

Joe, who knew how to read the signs in his friends, watched them from behind the bar. Methos stood, put money on the bar, and shrugged into his raincoat. He faded through the darkened club toward the rear exit. You're assuming they're coming through the front door, MacLeod mused.

The assumption proved to be correct. The front door admitted a rain-soaked immortal of average height with dark hair and eyes, wearing grey woolens. He paused just inside the door, removed his wet cap and coat, and scanned the crowd in Joe's. The Thursday night crowd was subdued and not very thick; it was early yet. There were some empty tables and only MacLeod at the bar.

MacLeod watched the man trying to identify the other immortal in the room. After careful study of the people sitting at tables, the man made eye contact with MacLeod. MacLeod lifted his glass slightly, and gave him an ironic smile.

Joe had moved his glass-drying operation to MacLeod's end of the bar. "Know this guy?" he asked.

"No. You?"

"Nope. Not by sight, anyway."

The newcomer met MacLeod's gaze with a look which might have been disappointment, replaced swiftly with a genial expression. He approached MacLeod slowly, though with no outward suspicion or hostility. He might have been being cautious. MacLeod turned his bar stool so he faced the man. Let the other make the first move. He was the intruder here. The man paused a few feet from MacLeod, holding his cap in both hands. He ducked his head slightly.

"David Grossman," he said.

"Duncan MacLeod," MacLeod returned, and after a moment's thought, held out his hand. Grossman gave a relieved smile and took it. Duncan gestured to the stool next to him, and the newcomer looked expectantly at Joe.

"What can I get you?" To MacLeod's ear, Joe sounded neutral, not friendly. He wondered if the name Grossman meant something to the Watcher.

"Anything you've got that's hot," the man replied, piling his wet outerwear on the stool next to his own.

"That'd be coffee," Joe replied. "How do you take it?"

"Two sugars, please."

MacLeod studied the smaller man, assessing. He looked as if his first death had occurred in his early forties, and he had a very unassuming manner and body language, but his movements suggested fitness and conditioning. His dark hair curled and glistened with rain, and seemed oddly shaped, somehow. When he turned his head to survey the bar area, MacLeod saw that he wore a yarmulke.

"What are you doing here, Mr. Grossman?" A hostile question in a non-committal tone. How would the other immortal choose to take it?

Grossman gave a knowing smile to the mug of coffee Joe slid in front of him.

"I'm looking for a man," he replied. No evasions. He looked directly at MacLeod, but included Joe in his regard. "I thought you might be him, but you're not. Maybe you can help me."

MacLeod schooled his features carefully to hide his sudden inner tension. Joe, however, paused in his glass drying, and lifted expressive eyebrows. Grossman turned to Joe, but still watched MacLeod.

"His name should be Adam. It might be Adam Pierson. I was told I might sometimes find him here. Do you know him?" This last was addressed to the mortal, the bartender, the one who might have information and less reason to withhold it.

Joe didn't even give MacLeod a glance. MacLeod knew that keeping secrets was so much a part of Joe that it would take more than this to catch him off-guard.

"What do you want him for?" Joe asked, appearing to think hard. Grossman looked down and lifted the coffee to drink. Then he smiled and addressed his answer half to MacLeod.

"My business with him is personal. We are old friends." He looked expectantly from one man to the other.

MacLeod stayed silent.

I want him to live, he had shouted to Cassandra. Then he hadn't seen her again, and Methos he couldn't seem to shake.

"Sorry, I'm afraid I can't help you," Joe said.

The man studied both their faces for a moment, then nodded. He reached into his pocket and produced a business card.

"I'm only in town for one night. Perhaps if you should meet him you could give him this for me." Still smiling, he pressed the card toward Joe. Joe hesitated, then took the card. "Thank you," Grossman said.

Joe turned away and busied himself at the other end of the bar, where two new customers had seated themselves. The place was slowly filling.

"Where are you from?" MacLeod inquired, neutral.

"Queens," the other replied. "New York," he added.

"And why are you looking for Adam Pierson?" Perhaps he would be less reluctant to admit his business now that they were talking immortal to immortal.

"Like I said, we're old friends. I knew him in New York after the War."

"Which one?"

"World War II." Grossman grinned. He seemed about to say something else, then changed his mind.

MacLeod considered. The man didn't have any of the antagonistic mannerisms he associated with head-hunting immortals. Still, he wasn't sure he had the right to arrange any meeting between two immortals when he wasn't certain of their intentions. And which of them was he protecting? Methos, he reminded himself, was not the mild-mannered researcher he had presented himself as. The fury MacLeod felt at the man he had thought of as a friend had long since settled into his stomach like a cold rock. The rock was there now.

"He might not be using Adam Pierson, now, but I hope he still uses Adam. I gave him the name," Grossman said.

"Why?"

"I had to call him something. He wouldn't give me any name."

"He still uses Adam Pierson," Joe reported, unexpectedly back with them. "He's on his way."

"You called him!" Grossman exclaimed.

"Yeah. He made me describe you, but he agreed that you're a friend. He should be here any minute." Joe must have the number of Methos's cellular, MacLeod reflected. The older immortal hadn't been gone long enough to be at home yet.

Joe had never shared MacLeod's judgement of Methos's past. That puzzled him. MacLeod had somehow expected Joe to be the most sensitive of the two of them to the massacre of thousands of mortals. Strange that he should feel a twinge of jealousy that he had not been trusted with a cellular number. Why should he? Dammit, they were not friends.

"Wonderful!" Grossman cried. "Thank you, my friend. I think I will move to a table before they are all taken." He gathered his things and coffee, nodded to MacLeod, and settled in at a table.

"What did he say?" MacLeod asked Joe.

Joe shrugged. "He's a friend and he's on his way."

"Not like him to be so trusting."

MacLeod missed Joe's amused agreement as his senses were abruptly flooded by the awareness of an approaching immortal. Grossman looked expectantly at the front door, but MacLeod turned toward the rear, resting one elbow on the bar.

Methos appeared from the rear door, paused, scanned, and spotted Grossman. His eyes widened and a delighted grin spread across his face. David, he mouthed, and moved swiftly toward the man's table. Grossman stood to meet him, and the two embraced like friends who hadn't seen each other in half a century.

MacLeod returned to his drink, reasonably satisfied that the evening would see no mayhem. Joe returned to his other customers.

But before too long, to MacLeod's annoyance, Methos was back at the bar, seating his friend next to MacLeod, and taking the stool on the far side of Grossman. He introduced Grossman warmly to MacLeod and then to Joe. MacLeod found he couldn't snub Methos in front of the outsider. When the handshakes were finished, Grossman commented, "Your friends are very protective of you, Adam."

"Yeah, well, that's what they're paid for," Methos joked. "Draft beer please, Joe. And ..." he looked at Grossman.

"The same."

MacLeod watched the two men with curiosity. He had not seen Methos this open and friendly since the demise of the Horsemen. Actually, he hadn't seen Methos this friendly, ever. What would Grossman think, he wondered darkly, if he knew the truth about his friend?

Grossman had produced a fat wallet full of pictures, and seemed to be giving "Adam" a family history lesson. He enumerated each person's name, the circumstances under which they were born, whom they had married, and what career they had pursued. This seemed to go on for a number of generations. Methos paid careful attention, which MacLeod was convinced was artificial. Every now and then he would glance up from the pictures at MacLeod, his hazel eyes laughing. Then he would return to the lesson and respectfully inquire "Now did you say she was one of Eva's girls?" or "Why didn't they have any children?"

Finally, Grossman grew suspicious and closed the wallet.

"Have you so little interest in your family?" he remonstrated.

"Oh, David, they're not my family." Methos leaned back, grinning. "MacLeod, did I tell you David was my rabbi?"

"And here I didn't even know you were Jewish," MacLeod replied. He remembered something Methos had said once. He had joked about being older than God.

"I'll never make a good Jew out of you if you don't pay more attention to family," Grossman sighed. Methos patted the wallet.

"They matter to you, I know, David," Methos said kindly, "but Zofia's kids were grown and gone when I married her. They despised me. They thought I married her for her money. So I just can't care that much about her great-grandchildren."

Methos was grinning, but Grossman looked uneasily at Joe, who had rejoined them. Mike, one of his bartenders, had arrived, and was dealing with most of the growing clientele in the bar.

Methos caught the look. "Joe's in on us," he explained.

Grossman looked surprised, but not concerned. "Oh, I see," he said to Joe, who grinned crookedly. He turned to Methos. "You made Mrs. Rosenfeld very happy." His tone invited a serious discussion, but Methos ducked it.

"But not her kids." He laughed and changed the subject. "Where are you staying, David?"

"Hotel," the other immortal replied, crinkling his eyes at his friend.

"No, no," Methos said. "Come and stay at my place. I'll take you to your plane in the morning."

"Maybe I should. You don't look entirely well, Adam. How are you?"

"I'm fine!" Methos exclaimed. "David pulled me out of a depression once," he explained to the others. "Made me an honorary Jew in the process." This was far too forthcoming of him, MacLeod reflected. What was he feinting away from?

"God made you a Jew, Adam," Grossman corrected, with quiet earnestness, "by virtue of shared suffering." His words hung in the air, waiting for Methos to say something.

"One little tattoo," Methos finally said. Then he excused himself and melted into the crowd, in the general direction of the bathrooms.

David Grossman seemed unconcerned that he had given the conversation so serious a turn. MacLeod began to suspect him of being more at home with personal conversation than with friendly chatter.

"I never saw a man who needed to talk as badly as he did," Grossman said, "but it was days before he would even tell me to get lost." He looked cheerfully at Joe over his mug. "That was a start."

MacLeod was torn between the knowledge that anything Grossman was likely to tell them was definitely not something Methos would want them to know, and a sudden urgent curiosity. Reminding himself that he owed Methos no special consideration, he allowed the curiosity to win.

"A concentration camp tattoo?" he asked.

Grossman nodded. "Bergen-Belsen."

MacLeod and Joe exchanged wide-eyed glances, but neither pursued the questioning. Grossman added nothing. MacLeod found he could not stop his imagination from revolving around what Nazi doctors might do to someone who could return from the dead.

Methos returned, ending the conversation which wasn't actually happening. Grossman took his turn, leaving Methos alone to his friends' scrutiny. While MacLeod struggled to decide how and if to inquire, Joe showed fewer reservations.

"You were in a death camp during the war?" he asked, not bothering to keep the awe out of his voice, as MacLeod would have done. Methos assented with a nod which also served to finish off his beer. Joe refilled it.

"Then I was in New York, which is where David made a project of me. I was a little out of it. Zofia Rosenfeld was a widow in his congregation. I wonder how he keeps serving the same community? He can't be his own grandson, when everyone knows he has no kids."

MacLeod watched as Joe played along, the two of them speculating how Grossman might do it, comparing notes on how other immortals had gotten away with similar identity sleights-of-hand. Interesting how we are now not talking about Bergen-Belsen, he mused. In fact, we're now not talking about Methos. They dropped the subject when Grossman returned.

"So, David," Methos asked, "how did you know where to find me? I've only just gotten a place here; I'm usually in Paris."

"Lucky for me you were in town, then. I met a woman who told me search for Adam Pierson here. This woman, she hates you very much, Adam." If Grossman had worn glasses, his look would have scolded his friend over their rims.

He may have been a little taken aback by the response he got. All color faded from Methos's face, Joe set a glass down on the bar, too loudly, and even MacLeod tensed as if the threat were to himself.

"Cassandra?" Methos breathed. Grossman glanced swiftly at the other two men before returning his avuncular regard to Methos.

"I'm glad we're talking about the same woman. I wouldn't like to think there were two women who hated you that much. Adam, why does she hate you like that?"

Neither Joe nor MacLeod breathed, and Methos merely regarded the other man with a stunned look. The silence stretched. Clearly Grossman had a high tolerance for uncomfortable silences. Methos looked like he wished he were on another planet.

Don't leave, Methos, MacLeod urged silently. Don't do that to him.

Finally, Methos responded. His tone was light, but MacLeod could hear the careful control.

"Well, she has good reasons, David, but I'd really rather not tell you about it."

Fair enough. MacLeod looked at Grossman.

No deal.

"Why are you afraid to tell me?" asked Grossman.

"Because I can't bear to see you hate me too," Methos gasped out.

Suddenly MacLeod wished he were on another planet, but the one frightened appeal Methos cast at him glued him to his stool. Joe was equally immobile, ignoring calls from patrons around him as Mike tried to be everywhere at once. Joe made a slight movement of his hand toward his friend, then grasped a cleaning rag.

"How could I hate you, Adam? You are a good man. I know it. It can't have been anything so bad." Grossman was genial, and patted Methos's arm reassuringly.

But Methos had all his defenses up.

"Oh no you don't," he declared. "I know this one. 'You're a good man, it can't have been so bad.' You say that so I'll blurt it out just to prove you wrong. Don't play those games with me David, I know them all."

Grossman blinked, but neither defended himself nor relented.

"Adam, I won't hate you. But I have to know what you did to Cassandra."

"Why?" it was almost a cry.

Don't push him, David, was now MacLeod's silent appeal. Don't do that to him. The rock in his stomach had changed from fury to fear.

"So I can help her."

"Help her!" Methos sounded incredulous. "You want to help Cassandra!"

"Of course. God has sent her to me, like He sent you to me. She has been devoured by hate for a very long time. It's a terrible thing. And such a beautiful woman."

"You ... want to help Cassandra." This time it was a statement, an idea. Methos's eyes went inky black as he looked at his friend like he wanted to see his soul. Then he looked away, at Joe. Through Joe.

Once again, Joe proved more courageous than MacLeod. He tried to intervene, to head off the coming catastrophe.

"David, maybe it would be better if ..."

But, MacLeod realized, there is no interference allowed once challenge has been made and met. Methos cut him off.

"You want to help Cassandra, like you did me."

"It's my job. I have to, if I can."

"Maybe you can, maybe you can." Methos sounded distracted. "Did you ever meet Darius?"

"I never had the pleasure."

"No, no, well ..." he took a breath. His face, which had flushed, paled again. He clutched his empty beer mug with both hands, darted an agonized look at Grossman, and began.

"Well, to begin with, I kept her captive, as my sex slave, for some time."

"You did." Grossman sounded doubtful.

"Yes." Methos studied his mug and pressed on. "I ... raped her, every night, or, well, once a day or so, I guess."

Grossman was still. MacLeod was grateful for the noise which now filled the bar. Conversations definitely did not carry. The Tuesday and Thursday night string band had begun the evening's blanket of noise, and it had become difficult to hear any conversation more than a few feet away.

Methos glanced again at the other man, and continued, now looking at something over Joe's shoulder.

"And that's just the beginning. If you want to help her, you'll need to know the real harm I did to her. I made it so she couldn't love."

No one said anything.

"I made her love me, and then I laughed at her. Then I manipulated her into loving me again, and I betrayed her. I did it three times just to show her how helpless she was. I had all the time in the world, you see."

"Adam, no."

"Oh yes." Methos looked straight at his friend now, but his eyes were seeing another age. "But it took more than that. I let her love other people. Friends, children. Then I ..." he focused abruptly on Grossman as he paused, "killed them in front of her."

As Grossman tried to protest, Methos rushed on. "It worked really well. I conditioned her to fear love. I wouldn't be surprised if she still can't love anyone."

"Adam, Adam!" Grossman cried, "To cut someone off from loving other people is to cut them off from God!"

"Don't forget, killing people does that too," Methos's voice was bitter. "Or, no, I forget, that sends them to God, doesn't it. Never could keep that straight."

MacLeod almost gasped. Methos was ice and steel. He went on. "David, if I had thought of it, I would have wanted to cut her off from God."

"Why, Adam, why?!" Grossman sounded very distressed.

Methos abruptly shrank into himself. "To keep her to myself, of course. So I could own her completely, dominate her, break her ..."

"When was this?"

"A long time ago. She'll tell you. She never broke though. She was magnificent."

"You loved her!" Grossman sounded horrified. Methos laughed a bitter laugh.

"I wouldn't tell her that, if I were you."

"Adam, I cannot believe this," Grossman's tone was resolute.

Methos regarded him with a detached, calculating look. He leaned forward, and spoke fiercely. "David, you have to believe it. If you don't, you won't believe her. She will know you don't, and then you can't help her. Listen to me. She will tell you I was a killer. I killed thousands, tens of thousands, of people. I was good at it. I enjoyed it. I destroyed every member of her tribe, and that was nothing! One of hundreds of tribes. Don't let any fondness for me cloud your judgment. It's all true."

The answer is yes. Oh, yes. The pain behind Methos's words set every nerve MacLeod had to aching. Could David hear that pain? Of course not. He wasn't meant to. Had it been there when Methos had bludgeoned MacLeod with the truth? With almost the same words? He hadn't heard it then.

Bewildered, Grossman appealed to MacLeod and Joe.

"You don't believe this of him, do you?"

Joe looked down, but MacLeod felt that something more definite was called for. He actually looked at Methos, but the world's oldest immortal wore his most inscrutable look. Would telling the man the truth hurt Methos or help him? Did MacLeod want to hurt Methos or help him? He tried to picture Methos with the Horsemen, and torturing Cassandra, but, unbidden, the images of Methos with Alexa, and grieving at her grave, intruded.

He met Grossman's agonized gaze, and nodded.

"But Adam, Adam ..." Grossman turned back to the other man. "You make yourself sound like ... a Hitler!"

Oh no.

Methos had chosen his path, and he didn't shrink from it.

"David, Hitler felt he had a moral reason for what he did. I never bothered with that. Hitler did have a higher body count, though."

At that almost-joke, Grossman began to tremble. He stood and began to fish in his coat pocket.

"Adam, I cannot stay at your place tonight," he declared with vicious calm.

Methos nodded. "Hotel then," he said.

Grossman extracted his wallet. "And I think I have to go there now." He took out some money for Joe, but Methos waved it away.

"I've got it," he said, a question in his tone.

Grossman froze, locking gazes with Methos. "I will let you buy my drink," he said deliberately, "for the sake of the man I thought you were."

"Thank you," Methos responded.

"I will have to know more details from you, eventually."

"Call me," Methos replied." I'll tell you anything you want."

Grossman nodded slowly, collected his coat and hat, nodded to Joe and MacLeod, and walked out of the bar.

Joe slid an icy bottle of beer into Methos's hands. It was faster than filling his mug, MacLeod guessed. Methos gripped the bottle and started to raise it to drink, but collapsed forward onto the bar before he got any further.

MacLeod breathed. He wondered how long it had been since he had breathed normally. He looked at Joe. Joe shook his head. They both regarded the vulnerable-looking neck and upper back of the only surviving Horseman of the Apocalypse. MacLeod hoped he wasn't crying. It made him uncomfortable that the man was willing to weep. He had told MacLeod once that he was born before men were forbidden to cry, and had never really seen any shame in it.

Well, tears or no, MacLeod wasn't going to fail to speak, this time.

"Adam." He caught himself almost using the older name.

"What?" The other man's voice was muffled and terse.

"That was a damn fine thing you just did."

Methos sat up, dragging his palms across his face. He gave MacLeod a grateful look, but didn't risk saying anything. He fished out a twenty, put it on the bar, met Joe's moist eyes for a brief second, took the bottle of beer and his coat, and fled out the rear door, like all his demons were chasing him. The rock in MacLeod's stomach was gone, replaced with an aching in his chest. He wished fervently that he could behead those demons for his friend. And then he reflected with some satisfaction that he already had.


	2. Communion

Days later, MacLeod found Methos at home, somewhat to his surprise. Or at least some immortal was occupying the brownstone Methos had recently rented as a Seacouver residence. MacLeod took the stairs three at a time, concerned that Methos would leave out another exit once he sensed someone's approach.

"Adam! It's MacLeod!" he called out.

He reached the door and knocked. The feeling of another immortal presence never faded.

He waited for what seemed an unnecessarily long time, but he was grateful for the chance to get his thoughts together. He really hadn't expected to meet the older immortal. He had expected the brownstone to be empty even of Methos's belongings.

He knocked on the doorframe again, rattling the screen with the blows.

"Adam?"

"What do you want, MacLeod?" Methos demanded from the other side of the door. MacLeod started. What was this hostility about? It had been three nights since MacLeod and Joe had unwillingly watched as Methos horrified Grossman with the truth, and, since fleeing the bar, Methos had not returned any phone calls. But, while MacLeod had been frosty to the former Horseman of the Apocalypse since their return from Bordeaux, he couldn't think of any serious reason Methos would have to be hostile to him.

"Would you open the door?"

Methos complied, but he held it open only enough to stand in it. His expression could not be called welcoming. "What do you want?"

"I'm checking to see if you're home. Joe is worried. You aren't answering your phone," he paused. "Can I come in?"

"No. I'm busy."

MacLeod considered. It was always possible he had come at a "bad time", but Methos's expression would be more, ... well... embarrassed, wouldn't it? It was also possible that he had mistaken the oldest immortal's continued presence in Seacouver as an interest in maintaining contact with MacLeod when it wasn't.

He couldn't very well pretend nothing had happened between them.

"So, su casa isn't mi casa anymore?" MacLeod held his breath.

Something flickered on Methos's face.

"I guess not," he replied after a pause, but, in a baffling contradiction to his words, he stepped back, pulling the door fully open.

MacLeod stepped just inside the townhouse and looked around. It was furnished much as Methos's place in Paris had been when MacLeod first met him. Eclectic and valuable objets d'art graced nooks and niches. The other furnishings had been selected to best display the collection of vases and sculptures. The exception was a bookcase on one wall, assembled out of boards and bricks. A remnant, perhaps, of Methos's graduate student persona.

MacLeod's attention was caught by the reclining terra cotta figure on the topmost shelf. It was a chacmool, ancient and gory emblem of Mayan human sacrifice. Between its hands, which should have held the still beating heart of its victim, someone had stuck a cheerful spray of daffodils. Someone with an ironic sense of humor.

Methos made no move to close the door. He held it as if waiting for his visitor to leave. He radiated un-welcome.

MacLeod took the door from him and shut it.

"MacLeod, I don't want company."

MacLeod ignored him. He moved around the sofa, which was placed in the center of the room, studying the decor. There was no evidence of packing boxes, but something was wrong here. What was it?

He spotted a framed picture of Methos and Alexa together on a beach. "Santorini?" he asked.

When Methos didn't reply, MacLeod looked up to find the other immortal had moved from his position by the door to stand closer to the couch. MacLeod wondered for a moment where Methos kept his sword.

He moved on around the living room and Methos mirrored his movements, keeping the couch between them.

MacLeod stopped.

Methos stopped.

MacLeod frowned. "What is the matter with you?" He hadn't meant it to sound so angry. Much of his anger at Methos had drained out of him the other night at Joe's.

"MacLeod, I'm in no condition to fight with you."

"Fight with me! What makes you think I want to fight you?"

"I told you I don't want company, and you're still here. Is this 'There Can Be Only One' time?"

"What?" Shock and fury rocked MacLeod. "Why would I want your head, now? What's the matter with you?!"

"You've killed better friends than me for much less than what I've done, Highlander."

Sully. Cullen. Ingrid. How dare he?

MacLeod's anger burned white hot. He advanced on the slighter man, who retreated around the couch. MacLeod almost leaped over it. He didn't want Methos's head, he wanted the satisfaction of feeling his fist smash into Methos's face. The vision tantalized, but MacLeod recognized this level of fury as dangerously hard to control, and instead, whirled around and threw open the door.

Behind him, Methos spoke as mildly as if the Highlander had just returned a borrowed book. "Thanks for coming by, MacLeod," he said. For the briefest moment, Methos looked smug.

MacLeod froze. His anger froze with him. Puzzle pieces snapped into place. Three nights ago he had watched as Methos deliberately destroyed David Grossman's image of him, wielding harsh truths, and refusing to allow the mild mannered rabbi to believe the best of his friend. Refusing it so that Grossman would not doubt Cassandra's story, and so might be better able to give her whatever solace she sought. Then the master of manipulation had driven Grossman away with a callous joke about Hitler and body counts. MacLeod now perceived a pattern. He closed the door and turned back to Methos.

Methos's eyes narrowed. "I thought you were leaving," he complained.

"I bet you did."

Methos stepped back, looking annoyed and slightly alarmed. MacLeod did not advance. Instead, he turned all his meditation-honed powers of concentration to studying the oldest living immortal. He saw the man now with a focus he usually only achieved during the duress of mortal combat. He knew Methos had paid a high emotional price for the other evening's sacrifice. Methos usually vanished when things became unpleasant. He should have fled more than Joe's bar the other night. Something was holding him here. In this townhouse.

Whatever it was, the strain on the other man was obvious to MacLeod's strangely enhanced perception. Immortals might not succumb to sickness, but they could succumb to neglect and stress. Even Grossman had observed that Methos didn't look well, and Methos had said he was in no condition ... Now MacLeod could see the stress. Stress had hurled Brian Cullen into despair and addiction. Methos's drug of choice was considerably more mild, and, ... was nowhere to be seen. Not even any empty bottles. That's what had seemed wrong. What are you doing here, Methos?

"Uh, it's my house?"

It took MacLeod a moment to realize that he must have spoken aloud. Or else Methos had become a mind reader. No matter, he still held the older immortal with his focused intensity.

He took a step forward.

Methos took a step, not back, but to the side. His gaze flickered, once, to the left. In combat it might betray a concern, or telegraph an intent. Here, it was a clue.

What was to Methos's left? The wall. On it, a stereo and CD collection. Beside it, a small table with, ... the phone. Testing, MacLeod moved toward the phone.

Sure enough, so did Methos.

The red LED on the answering machine announced thirteen unplayed messages. Unplayed because Methos had heard each one as it came in.

"Why aren't you answering your phone, Methos?" MacLeod knew he said this aloud, for he was startled by the menace in his own voice.

Apparently, so was Methos. His eyes grew over-large in his pale face. He practically quivered. MacLeod was reminded, more than anything else, of an injured animal which wouldn't come out of hiding because it didn't know it was being offered aid.

His vision grew more eerie. It morphed from that of focus and concentration to a level of clarity which was almost mystical. The light in the room seemed to dim and grow around its main occupant. MacLeod could almost see a glowing, symbolic chain linking Methos to the phone. And the chain had a name on it.

"Grossman!" he exclaimed. Methos jumped. The vision vanished. What was that, anyway? "You're waiting for Grossman to call!"

If Methos was surprised that MacLeod had become a mind reader, he didn't show it, other than by a startled blink.

"It's my phone. I'll do what I like with it."

"But he might not call for days, or weeks! He might never call."

Methos flinched as if he'd been hit. "He said he would."

Well, there was that. MacLeod regarded his friend and noticed again the ache in his chest somewhere in the vicinity of the seat of compassion. Methos looked back at him, five feet away and completely unreachable.

"MacLeod, would you go if I just asked you to?" Methos implored.

Whether by accident or by plan, Methos had won now. MacLeod really was too well-mannered to stay where he wasn't wanted. Unlike Methos. Now he had to go.

"You know, you could call him."

"I could if he had a listed number."

You didn't get his number!

MacLeod left with a plan. Grossman had given a business card to Joe.

* * *

"MacLeod, I told you, I don't want company."

"Yeah, well, I'm coming in anyway."

Methos gave ground before the larger man, but took up a defensive position protecting the dining nook. And the phone. Funny how MacLeod now interpreted the man's moves in tactical terms.

Well, he had the killing blow, he hoped.

He reached into his grocery bag and removed the topmost six-pack. He placed it on the sofa table, and looked at Methos.

Pure gratitude shimmered on the man's face and form.

Touché.

"Okay, you can stay," Methos said, melting.

Triumphant, MacLeod followed him to the kitchen, where he passed the bottles to Methos, who relayed them into the empty refrigerator. A familiar act.

MacLeod studied the older man, groping for the mysterious clarity of vision which he had had before. Methos looked thinner, he noticed. Was he not eating? Did they starve you in the death camp, Death? Stupid question. Of course they did.

MacLeod riffled through his own memories of the war. He had never seen a concentration camp, not even after the war, but he had felt their effects. Shock and fury reverberated through the Allied forces as camp after camp was liberated, and ordinary soldiers saw what they had not prevented. MacLeod had seen the backlash when he visited a hastily erected American POW pen for holding the surrendering German soldiers. "How little can we feed them and still be within the Geneva convention?" the commander had asked.

He was not a cruel man. He and his men were in the war as a glorious rescue, not for any personal grudge. But they had seen a horror which made them hate.

When MacLeod protested the treatment of the prisoners, he met an immense stony wall of disinterest. A wall built neither of policy nor of sadism, but of pure sickened reaction. He had heard the stories, of course, but it was the eyes of those soldiers which haunted his dreams. You have not seen what we have seen.

MacLeod had never met a war he liked - not even in his youth, if he was honest with himself - but suddenly he had realized that somewhere, not so far away, this war had a monstrous heart of evil, a core of true darkness unlike anything he had encountered before. He had not seen it, but it made him shiver.

Methos had lived in it. Survived, as immortals always did, amidst the deaths of generations.

A clock struck the half-hour, banishing MacLeod's memories, but not quite returning him to himself. He looked at his fellow immortal, hoping for something to reassure him that they were both here, in the present. A mocking look, a cynical joke, would be welcome.

No such luck.

Methos sat across the table from him, regarding his beer. And, as if he were a reflection of MacLeod's thoughts, he was shivering.

MacLeod had to move. He stood and strode past Methos to the screened back door. Seacouver's eternal rain had started again, and a damp breeze blew through the screen. MacLeod closed the door. Maybe Methos was just cold.

Methos looked up at the action. MacLeod met his gaze, still trying to really see the man. He resisted an impulse to touch him, reminded again of the wounded animal coaxed out of hiding. If you got that far, you still didn't touch. The animal would lash out. What did you do? You... offered food and backed away.

"I'm calling for a pizza."

"Not on my phone!" Methos cried.

MacLeod drew his cellular phone slowly out of an inner jacket pocket, as if he were disarming himself at the point of a gun. "No, on mine."

Methos slumped.

MacLeod placed the call.

"You're paying for it," Methos said.

"Why? I bought the beer."

"I'm out of cash. Banks don't deliver."

MacLeod nodded, replacing his phone. A thought occurred to him. "Is your home phone the only number he has?"

Methos nodded.

Oh. But, still . . . "You know, you could use your cellular to return calls to your friends," he said.

"I could if I wanted to talk to anyone." Methos sounded so desolate, so utterly alone, it was all MacLeod could do to keep from hugging the hunched shoulders. He had never been able to ignore another's pain. "It's something I admire," Sean Burns had said. Another friend he'd killed.

Burns. Burns would have tried to help Methos with talking. MacLeod could try. It would mean not avoiding the subject any longer. Would Methos allow it?

He sat opposite the man who had been Death on a horse, and tried to comfort him with words.

"Methos, what is it you're afraid of?" When Methos didn't reply, MacLeod went on. It wasn't hard to guess. "You're afraid of what she's telling him. You're thinking of all the things she could be saying. You're ... remembering things you did."

Methos didn't look up, but he began to peel the label off of his beer bottle. MacLeod was certain he was on target.

"Does it matter so much to you? What he thinks?"

MacLeod tried to imagine what Grossman meant to Methos. He knew Grossman had befriended "Adam" after the war. After Bergen-Belsen. "I never saw a man who needed to talk as badly as he did," Grossman had said. What had it been like?

You have not seen what we have seen.

To MacLeod's surprise, Methos answered. "I just don't want to lose all my friends over this," he said, very quietly.

The "over this" rekindled MacLeod's old anger. As if murder and rape were trifles which his friends ought to overlook! For a moment MacLeod's resolution slipped. Then he took a firm hold of it. He was a guest here. Methos didn't have to let him in.

"You never lost Joe, Methos." Surely the man had mortal friends who knew nothing about any of it. Maybe that's not what he meant. MacLeod reminded himself that Methos had killed probably his oldest immortal friend "over this". He thought again of Brian Cullen.

Go ahead, say it.

"And you haven't lost me, either. And Grossman ... is probably a better man than I am."

Mercifully, Methos let these declarations pass. MacLeod hoped he had heard them. Or maybe he hoped he hadn't.

"He's never going to call," Methos mourned.

If he didn't, MacLeod reflected, the tightly strung man before him might snap. "Yes, he is."

And soon, now.

MacLeod realized with a glance at the antique Seth Thomas clock, that he wouldn't have time to wait for the pizza before Grossman called. He took out the cash for it and set it on the table. He regarded the unhappy man huddled there. Beer, pizza, a phone call ... it was all MacLeod could do for him now. It was time for him to go.

"I'm coming back later. Don't go anywhere."

* * *

Methos was still at home, to MacLeod's relief. He announced himself again.

"Come in, MacLeod," he heard clearly through the screen door. Despite the rain, Methos had his front door open.

He found Methos sprawled on his couch, a six pack on the floor. The pizza was there, too, untouched. But the place no longer felt like a prison.

Methos reached down and tossed MacLeod a beer. MacLeod caught it and grinned. Methos almost smiled back. His expression was odd, though. Distant.

MacLeod sat carefully in a chair which looked more surrealistic than functional. Dali never made chairs, did he? He reached for the pizza box and helped himself.

They drank their beers. MacLeod thought he had seldom savored a companionable silence so much. He waited for Methos to stop staring at the ceiling and break it.

"I forgot I would have to explain about being Methos."

Oh. Oh! Well, this was safer ground.

"How did that go?"

"I don't know. He didn't believe it."

"He told you he didn't believe you?"

"No. But I could tell. But that must mean he doubts Cassandra. She would tell him that much. Now I don't know what's going on."

MacLeod considered this. "How could you tell he didn't believe you?"

Methos sighed and sat up. "He didn't ask any of the usual questions."

"What do you mean?"

Methos slid to his feet and wandered around the room. "You know, did I build Stonehenge, was I Alexander's tactical advisor, did I design the pyramids. Those questions." His wandering brought him back to the pizza box. He extracted a piece of pizza and bit into it, his expression still distant. A 5000 year old man eating pizza.

MacLeod gave himself a mental shake. "I never asked you those questions."

Methos looked at MacLeod as he worked on his pizza slice. "I know. Why didn't you?"

Why? Several flippant answers occurred to MacLeod, but he rejected them. He sorted through his feelings for the truth. "At first there wasn't time. Later, well, ..." did he dare risk what would sound like a criticism? How fragile was the other man? "... you're not always very approachable."

Methos's expression didn't change. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

MacLeod let it drop. He took another piece of pizza, hoping it would encourage Methos to do the same. The other immortal really did look thinner. Peaked, his mother would have said. "Can I ask them now?"

Methos gave him a surprised look, then he looked down. "Okay."

"Did you build Stonehenge?"

"No. I was nowhere near the place."

"Who did then?"

"I don't know, MacLeod. The people who lived there at the time, I imagine." Methos's voice had a familiar, irritated tone. MacLeod was glad to hear it. "What am I, an encyclopedia?"

MacLeod affected a sigh. "Like I said, you're not very approachable."

"Point. Okay. Point taken," Methos said. He sank onto the couch and took a piece of pizza. "Care to try again?"

"Were you Alexander's tactical advisor?"

"No. I was a foot soldier in his army, though." And ...? MacLeod was sure he could see Methos struggle to volunteer information without being sarcastic. "I never made it to the Hyphasis. He wanted to establish a colony on the Jaxartes, and I was volunteered. Not that I minded. I've always preferred settling down to warfare." He glanced up at MacLeod, almost fearfully. "Most of the time, anyway."

MacLeod refrained from comment. He did wonder for a moment what Hyphasis and Jaxartes were. What was the question about the pyramids? Well, it didn't matter, he found he had a question of his own for the oldest of his kind. He had his own untended wounds. How could you do it? How could you enjoy it? "Did you ride with Kronos as one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse?"

Methos reacted to his feet and retreated to the bookcase. "That's not part of the legend."

"Maybe it should be. Answer the question." Please.

Methos was still. MacLeod waited. He had learned this waiting trick from Grossman. The chacmool kept its uncaring gaze fixed over Methos's head. The daffodils were starting to droop.

"Yes."

"Did you kill thousands of people?"

Methos looked out the window into the rain-slicked street. "Yes," he replied.

"Did you like it?" MacLeod held his own gaze steady, but gentled his tone. He'd had enough of judging, for now. He just wanted to finish this, to offer his friendship again, despite Methos's past. He was prepared for the answer, this time.

Methos shivered again, once, still looking into the distance. "Yes. I think."

What? He wasn't prepared for this answer! MacLeod traded one type of intensity for another. "You think!" he almost yelled.

Released, Methos turned away, to face the bookshelf. He wiped a hand across his face. "I don't really remember what I felt. It's more like a movie I saw that had me in it."

MacLeod's world reeled. How many times had he replayed their scene by Methos's car? Where Methos laughed as he boasted about how he had enjoyed killing people? Where MacLeod had nearly wept as he declared their friendship over? Methos had said he liked it. Had done little to keep the Highlander from believing he was eager to return to his old life. Had manipulated him again.

"You. Told. Me ..." he couldn't finish. He almost couldn't breathe.

Methos watched him. "Sorry," he said gently, and with utter sincerity. "It wasn't what you think. I just lost it."

Strangely, it helped. MacLeod took two deep, centering breaths. The rain, which had been falling quietly, began to drum the window glass. "You didn't ... you didn't do that deliberately? To drive me away?"

"I would have much rather had your help."

"You had it anyway."

"I know. Thanks." They both listened to the rain. MacLeod felt better than he had in months.

"You could try that, you know," he said.

"What?"

"Apologizing."

"Apologize to whom? The shades of the dead?"

"No. To Cassandra."

Methos paled. "I think not."

"Why not?"

"Do you really think there's an apology big enough? You have no idea."

"I think I do. She spent a week telling me about it in Bordeaux. Telling me what she's telling Grossman now."

Methos winced.

"Worse, probably - she wanted me to kill you."

Methos positively flinched.

"You should apologize." MacLeod was unrelenting.

"It's laughable."

"So, you get laughed at. It's still the right thing to do."

"And you are the expert on the right thing to do." Methos hardly bothered to put sarcasm in his words. It was almost a statement of fact.

MacLeod didn't answer. He didn't have to.

The phone rang. Methos walked to it and waited. Answer the phone, Methos. Come back to your friends.

Methos picked up before the machine did. MacLeod smiled.

"Oh, David!" Methos turned a desperate expression on the Highlander. David! MacLeod scrambled to his feet and gathered his coat. He needed no preternatural vision to read Methos's plea.

As he pulled the door shut behind him, rain pelting his exposed neck, he heard Methos speak.

"No," he said, in a bemused tone, "I was nowhere near the place."


	3. Kaddish

"MacLeod." MacLeod pinched the phone between his ear and shoulder, leaving his hands free for the chop-chop-chopping of celery stalks. The caller hesitated a moment, then said,

"Hi MacLeod, it's Adam."

"Adam!" MacLeod put down the knife and gripped the phone receiver. He would have preferred his response to sound more hearty. Instead he sounded worried. "How ... are you?"

There was a lot in the question.  
"Okay."

And nothing in the answer. MacLeod sighed. "Are you and Grossman talking?"

Silence. Oh ho, not supposed to bring that up, huh?

"Yeah. Look, MacLeod ... would you ... come over? Here?"

Well, that had to be the most awkward invitation MacLeod had ever heard. One of them, anyway. And no, he wouldn't like. He had a wonderful broth simmering, and chicken breasts ready for the oven. Outside, the weather had taken a sudden wintry turn, and the rainclouds had that look which said snow, making the oven-heated loft all the more cozy.

"You could come over here," he was amazed to hear himself offer to a murderer. "I'm making lunch."

"Nooo, thanks. I'm uh, some other time." Damn. The man was retreating. Since when was Methos so ... timid? It must be important.

"Wait, Adam, what is it?" Cards on the table. Methos wouldn't call MacLeod up for a social visit. Too much lay between them. And MacLeod had made it clear that he was willing to help.

"I just need some help lifting something down."

"You need help lifting something down?" he said, disbelief in his tone. Was this really what Methos had called him for?

"Yeah," Methos said.

"So, ask a neighbor or someone."

"No, you or Joe would be best. And it's a little beyond Joe."

MacLeod eyed his chicken breasts regretfully. "Okay, Methos, I'll bite. What is it?"

"My journals. Grossman wants to know some things I can't remember."

MacLeod turned off the stove.

* * *

Methos wasn't kidding. He did need help getting his journals down. He had them stored in locked metal coffers stacked eight feet high in a climate-controlled pre-fab shed in his backyard. The curator in MacLeod was impressed with the dehumidifying climate control system dominating the shed. The faint aroma in the air was probably pesticide.

MacLeod fussed over the air-conditioning machine, asking questions about its operation and expense. Methos answered casually, and MacLeod let him avoid discussing the heavy aluminum double handled safes the shed held, until he was ready. Finally Methos indicated the one he needed, and the two of them unstacked and restacked in order to extract it. It took both of them to carry it into the townhouse.

"Methos, I can't believe you don't have this stuff on disks."

"'This stuff' is too important to me to put on magnetic, MacLeod; I was waiting for writable optical media. It will take time. I can't exactly get someone in."

They dropped the case on Methos's living room floor. Its weight shook the room. Methos promptly sat on it. "Well, thanks, MacLeod. You want a beer?"

"Aren't you going to open it?"

"Yes, later. Or... how about that beer?" Methos was suddenly skittish - a colt in a thunderstorm. He jumped up and practically bolted for the kitchen. MacLeod let him bring him a beer. He fixed his gaze on the other immortal, who looked away.

"So, open it up," MacLeod said.

"Why?"

"Wasn't that the idea? I did not leave my lunch uncooked to come over here and not see your journals."

"You want to see them?" Methos seemed surprised.

"Of course."

Methos considered this, then slowly turned and knelt before the case. He paused for a long moment then reached forward to the combination dial. He moved slowly as he raised the lid, in ... what? Reverence? Apprehension?

Inside were leather bound books - maybe two dozen. MacLeod's practiced eye dated them at more than a century. Closer to two, probably, but certainly not 2500 years old. Methos must have copied them over.

"Well, there, you see them." Methos showed no inclination to touch them.

In deference to Methos's mood, MacLeod spoke quietly. "What does Grossman need to know?"

Methos didn't move, but something about him went rigid. He didn't answer.

"You're not going to tell me, are you."

"No."

"How can I help?"

"You can't. You already have. Thanks."

MacLeod took a drink of his beer and walked over to look out the front window. It wasn't as if he didn't have other plans for the day. He was preparing to move back to Paris. Paris, where the memories of Tessa were only good ones, and did not include muggers and gunshots. At least not so much. He had noticed the difference during his brief stay on the barge after his pursuit of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse had ended so spectacularly in Bordeaux. He had packing to do.

But he couldn't shake the feeling that Methos had meant to ask for some other help. He thought of the shattered, grieving woman Cassandra had become when she learned that her former captors still lived. His compassionate heart ached for her, and for himself. Her millennia old grief for the loss of her tribe reminded MacLeod so sharply of the slaughter of the Lakota tribe who had been his people for a time.

Little Deer. He toasted her sadly with his beer. His own grief and lust for revenge had damaged him so much before Coltec took it away. Who could save Cassandra from that now that Coltec was gone? Could Grossman? Well, MacLeod was determined to give him every opportunity. He looked back at Methos. That enigmatic legend which had done this to her mustn't be allowed to shirk his responsibility.

MacLeod set his beer down and returned to where Methos still sat, regarding the metal case as if it held a nest of vipers. MacLeod scooped up one of the volumes and pivoted to guard his prize from any intercepting grab. Retreating out of reach, he turned back to Methos. Methos merely smiled at him. Why didn't the man try to protect his privacy? MacLeod hefted the volume, threatening to open it.

Nothing.

Damn. Now he'd have to follow through, and actually he had no intention of reading what amounted to someone else's diary. He opened the tome, and allowed the defeat. "What is this?" he scowled.

"That one? Hittite."

"You write your journals in Hittite."

"I write my journals in a variety of dead languages. Keeps my hand in and it's safer."

"I thought Kalas could read them." MacLeod restored the journal to its owner, who replaced it in the case.

"He read the ancient Greek. Not dead enough, apparently. Be glad you can't read it, MacLeod," he added, his back to the Highlander. "It's pretty horrific. Nothing you'd want to read alone at night in a thunderstorm."

Alone. Maybe MacLeod could help. He stood near the kneeling man. "Methos, you're doing the right thing," he said.

Methos's expression hardened. "Don't," he said.

"Don't what?"

"Don't imagine you know why I'm doing this, MacLeod."

MacLeod began a slow smile.

"What?" Methos demanded.

"I know what you're going to say."

"Oh?"

"You're going to say you're just being practical."

Methos looked irritated. "That's right. I don't give a damn about Cassandra. I just don't want her hunting my head."

"Right."

"That's right! MacLeod, you're seeing what you want to see."

"Am I?"

"A week ago you saw a murdering monster. Now you're seeing what? Compassion or something? Cut it out."

"Okay."

"Okay. Right. So, don't you need to get back to your lunch?"

"Too late. It's all put away."

"Yeah, I noticed you didn't bring any of it over here."

MacLeod bit back the sarcastic answer which presented itself, and instead said, "I wish I had. You don't look like you've been eating much."

He thought he had given the words just the right tone of off-handedness, but Methos shot him a suspicious look. MacLeod was saddened to realize that Methos had not expected him to say something kind. He returned to the window. The rain was back. Not snow, after all.

"Methos, I'm not leaving until you find what Grossman needs." He turned to face Death sitting cross legged and holding a beer bottle. "I'm going to sit there on your sofa and read a book while you read your horror novels."

"MacLeod..." the words trailed off as Methos studied the younger immortal. His scrutiny was oddly intense, causing the hair on MacLeod's arms to stand up. He wondered what the other man was seeing. Whatever it was, Methos dropped his objection and looked down at his beer. "They're much worse than horror novels," he confided. Then he turned such an unguarded, vulnerable expression on MacLeod that it made MacLeod's throat constrict. "Because these aren't fiction, and I know the monster intimately."

"Get to work," MacLeod said softly.

* * *

Some time later, MacLeod looked up from his book to see Methos taking notes from one of his journals. Using his left hand.

"Methos, you aren't left-handed, are you?" he asked. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. He froze, appalled at his faux pas. Knowing the true handedness of an opponent was a real edge to a world-class swordfighter - which most immortals who survived more than a century certainly were. If Methos had been feigning right-handedness, MacLeod had just violated his privacy as much as if he had read his journals. And in a more threatening way.

MacLeod drew breath to take it back, say it didn't matter, something, but stopped, uncertain. Methos looked at him, poker-faced. The silence between them lasted just a bit too long before Methos said, "No, I'm ambidextrous." He gave MacLeod a little half-smile and returned to his reading.

MacLeod stood and headed for the kitchen, more embarrassed than he had been in a long time. He should never have asked that. They were immortals. There can be only one. Alone on the tile floor, MacLeod cursed the part of him which had to be taking stock, assessing, even his friends. Even now, that calculating part of him would not pause. It reviewed the times he had sparred with the 5000 year old man, reviewed scenes of Methos holding a paintbrush, Methos reaching for a beer, Methos fighting Silas. Ambidexterity was no particular advantage - not when every warrior studied to be equally skilled with both hands- unless your opponent was assuming handedness. Methos had just trusted MacLeod with this knowledge, this edge.

Of course, he could be lying, that treacherous part of him assessed. Left-handedness was more common than true ambidexterity. The little-half smile Methos had given seemed to acknowledge that neither of them dared expect to trust or be trusted on this subject. But somehow MacLeod was certain that Methos had just handed him his head on a platter, if he wanted it. And not for the first time.

He retrieved more beer and returned to the living room in an uneasy state of mind. Methos accepted the new beer, standing. The coffer was closed and he held his notebook tucked under an arm.

"Done?"

"Yes."

Well, he had done it before dark. The gray of the day made it difficult to judge where the sun was, but it was still up. The gray was reflected on the oldest immortal's face.

"So now you call Grossman."

"Yeah." Methos did not sound eager.

"Why don't you take the cordless into the bedroom?"

"Why don't I wait and call him after you've gone home?"

"Because you'll still need help putting that case back."

"We could do that tomorrow."

"Who says I'm free tomorrow? You can't wait much longer - it's three hours later in New York."

"I know what time it is!" Methos snapped.

MacLeod sat down very deliberately on the sofa and picked up his book. Methos glared. If he went into full rebellion, MacLeod would have little choice but to leave and hope he would make the phone call. He mustn't push. After a bit, he turned a page he hadn't actually read.

Methos sighed, took the cordless phone into the bedroom, and shut the door, a little more loudly than was necessary. MacLeod smiled.

The gray day turned into a gray night as MacLeod finished the book. A tapping sound began at the window as the rain turned to sleet. As he reached to turn on a lamp, MacLeod gave a heartfelt prayer of thanks for central heating and electric lights. Then, one of the few other people who had lived most of his life before such things, entered the room. He considered MacLeod with eyes dark with suspicion. "He wants to talk to you," he said, holding out the phone.

* * *

MacLeod refused to be secretive about his end of the phone conversation, and he remained sitting on the sofa. Methos moved restlessly around the townhouse, unable to pretend there was anywhere where he wasn't overhearing. When MacLeod was finished talking to Methos's old friend, he handed the phone back to its deeply suspicious owner, and passed on Grossman's message. Methos did not receive it well.

"No! Absolutely not!" Methos's eyes flashed.

"What do you mean?"

"What part wasn't clear, MacLeod? No! No, nein, nyet, ieh..." Methos's refusal flowed into languages MacLeod didn't speak. Dead ones, probably. "I am not meeting with her! Why should I?"

"Because, Methos ..."

"I told him no. Why did he involve you?!"

"He said I should explain it because I was your friend ..."

"No! I get nothing out of this! I can't even believe she wants to do it! And not on holy ground?! It's insane!"

That part made MacLeod uneasy, too. He tried again to explain, "He says meeting on holy ground shows too much distrust."

"Of course it shows distrust! That's why we do it. This whole situation reeks of distrust. She tried to murder me, MacLeod! I am not going anywhere near her!"

MacLeod tried to keep a rein on his temper. "I thought you were willing to help her. Make some amends ..."

"I was willing to let David help her! I am not willing to eviscerate myself for her! Fuck her!"

"And how many times did you eviscerate her? Rape her, torture her?" Temper lost, MacLeod's hands curled into fists. "You owe her this!"

Methos went still. "Get out," he spat.

"No."

MacLeod had had centuries of practice at judging how close another man was to violence. Not for the first time, he wondered where Methos kept his sword. Surely he wouldn't ...

He didn't. But he did scoop up the nearest weapon he could find, a lamp, and hurl it at the Highlander. MacLeod was ready, and he avoided the missile easily. It crashed expensively against the stereo. Never taking his gaze from Methos, MacLeod registered the successive crashes of a speaker, a stack of CDs, and a vase. And he threw it right-handed.

MacLeod was glad that he no longer felt the hot-blooded furies of his youth which had demanded an immediate and furious retaliation for any physical affront. He remembered a teaching of May-Ling's which had resonated strongly with his fundamental chivalry. When you are very strong, you must practice great restraint.

He uncurled his fists and opened his palms toward his friend. "Methos," he said, both appeal and apology.

"Get out," the other immortal ordered again, quietly. He made no move to close. If MacLeod was reading past the fury on his face correctly, Methos even looked chagrined. Oh, my friend, not everything you do is calculated, is it.

"You invited me here, remember?"

"Which gives you the right to suck my blood, is that it?" Methos hissed. MacLeod looked at Methos helplessly. He wanted to leave. Methos wanted him to leave. Maybe it would be best. But...

"If I go, will you still be here tomorrow?"

"Not a chance in Hell." Methos rubbed his eyes. MacLeod laughed, a short bark torn from him by the unexpected honesty of the answer. Methos looked up.

MacLeod gestured around the room. "You'll have a long night. Want some help?"

 

In the end, Methos agreed to be bought off with booze. Half apology, half bribe, both men knew MacLeod was buying. It was not easy to get two good sized immortals drunk and keep them that way, nor was it inexpensive. Methos drank, MacLeod paid, and Joe profited.

But in the morning the problem had not gone away. Methos would still rather spend a millennium in the Himalayas than face Cassandra. And MacLeod could hardly tie him up. He needed to talk to Grossman.

* * *

"Mr. MacLeod, you seem like a good man. Doesn't it bother you, what he was?"

Yes, of course it did. MacLeod knew exactly how Grossman felt.

"Yes," he managed, struggling with his own feelings. He shifted the phone to his other ear. "But it was such a long time ago."

A part of him rose up in fury at the conciliatory words. Would that make a difference to the people he murdered? it roared. What if it were only a century ago? Or a decade? How does time make it all right?

"People change," he added, to Grossman and to himself.

"Yes," Grossman agreed, a note of uncertainty in his tone. "I have known people to change a great deal in just an ordinary lifetime, but ..." He paused. "It's not common, this much change."

MacLeod sighed, relieved to hear his own concerns coming from someone else. Joe had done little but defend Methos blindly, even when he knew the worst. He'd said something about "your gut". But MacLeod hadn't felt he could afford to depend on only gut feelings; not when he might have to decide whether or not to kill a friend. Again. "He's not a common man," he said.

"You mean, because he is Methos? I admit ..." Whatever it was, Grossman didn't admit it. "It shouldn't make any difference."

"No, what I meant was, it may be a lot of change, but he's had a lot of time."

"Yes, of course," Grossman agreed, tentatively. "Even Cassandra seems to me like something out of legend."

"She is." MacLeod smiled fondly. Tired of worrying about Methos, he asked what he had refrained from asking before. "Is Cassandra with you? Is she all right?"

"She is here in New York. She is very depressed. Her belief in Adam's ..." He corrected himself, sounding ever so slightly awed. "Methos's evil was a very important part of her view of the world."

Be careful, David, MacLeod thought, Show him any awe and he'll shock you out of it. Then he heard what the man had said.

"So you think Cassandra thinks differently of him now?"

"I can't say what she thinks," he responded, "but I am sure she wants to understand what has happened to her."

"In Bordeaux?" MacLeod was puzzled. What was to not understand?

"Yes. She has little doubt about what happened to her at the hands of these men before that."

Little doubt, indeed. MacLeod reminded himself that Grossman was just now hearing the horrible, bloody, merciless story of Cassandra's early life. The story which had incensed MacLeod and made him hate one of his best friends. A story Methos had never refuted.

"Mr. MacLeod, you say Adam refuses this meeting."

"Oh, yes."

"Can you tell me ... how do you think he views Cassandra?"

Great, MacLeod thought, you won't tell me what Cassandra thinks, but you want me to tell you what Methos thinks.

One of a thousand regrets, MacLeod.

"I think he's afraid of her. I also think he sees her as a very painful reminder of his past."

"I was afraid of that. He is mistaken. She is a gift of the Lord to him."

"A ... gift?"

"She is a survivor of his crimes. The only one. She carries the memories of all his dead. She needs to unburden herself of that, and he... she can represent them all to him. He must do right by her."

"Well, I can't explain it to him. I'm not sure I even understand you."

"Oh no, it's not for you to explain. I'm sorry. That is my place. Thank you for calling."

"Grossman, wait!"

"Call me Mel, please."

Mel? "Mel?"

"I'm not using David, at the moment. I am the son of David Grossman's nephew."

"Okay, Mel," MacLeod acquiesced, "do you have Cassandra's number?"

"Mr. MacLeod," Grossman said, not unkindly, "she has yours."

* * *

So she is mad at me. MacLeod chewed over his own actions as he packed his favorite glassware in a shipping box. If only he could talk to her. Joe would know where she was. Immediately after Bordeaux, Joe could tell MacLeod nothing of her whereabouts - all Watchers had been pulled off the Horsemen case, for their own safety. If a global catastrophe had begun, they would have other concerns than chronicling it. It still gave MacLeod a chill to think how close they had all come to Armageddon. Cassandra and he had gone to do battle to prevent, well, the end of the world, abandoned even by their shadows.

Then he had lost her. She probably felt he had betrayed her. But she had obviously resurfaced in New York. The Watchers would have her location by now.

He didn't want to ask Joe. There were other options. New York. Hmm. Connor. Or even a detective agency. He smiled, sealing the lid of the last box. Turnabout, after all...

It could wait a week. In a week he'd be settled in in Paris. He wondered if he'd thought to tell Methos he was going. He didn't think he had. He shrugged mentally. Joe would tell him. Before Joe put the Seacouver bar in other hands and followed him himself. It would serve Methos right to have someone else vanish on him, for a change.

* * *

"What do you mean, he's gone!"

"Gone. Cleared out. Skeddadled," Joe regarded the angry immortal in his bar with what looked suspiciously like amusement, "I went by his place this morning. Completely empty. He didn't mention where he was going?"

MacLeod slammed his fist down on the bar, causing some glasses to hop. "No. I thought I talked him out of it. He told me I had talked him out of it!"

Joe swept the breakables to safer ground. "So he drank your booze and left anyway."

"Yeah," MacLeod swore in languages he hoped Joe didn't speak. "Doesn't he have to stay in touch with you guys?"

Joe didn't pretend that he didn't know who "you guys" meant. He looked regretful. "Not anymore. He quit."

This brought the Highlander up short. "He quit? You mean people can quit?"

If Joe saw that as an insult, he didn't let on. "Occasionally. Particularly if the guy is kind of suspect."

"Suspected of what? They were going to kill you for ..." MacLeod trailed off at the expression on Joe's face.

Joe shrugged it off. "Adam went a little AWOL with Alexa. And then he was the only Watcher involved when the Methuselah Stone went missing who didn't happen to end up dead. He's not suspected of treason. He's suspected of being not very reliable."

"Well, they've got that right, anyway." Dammit! MacLeod began to pace around the empty bar. He came across a chair which had not been upended onto a table, and he swept it up into proper position. He thought furiously. Try as he might to come up with another lead, Dawson remained his best connection. He returned to the bar. "Joe, he stays in touch with you, doesn't he?" He stabbed a finger at the Watcher to emphasize that he didn't mean the organization. "You've been friends for what? Eleven or twelve years?"

Joe shook his head. "Maybe, Mac, maybe. I'm on his Christmas card list. But you know, he didn't stay in touch after ..." there was the barest hesitation as Joe changed his approach to what he was saying, "when he went to Tibet."

"He sends Christmas cards?" MacLeod wondered aloud.

Joe grinned quizzically. "Well, I get one."

"Ordinary Christmas cards?"

Joe gathered his cane and came around to the front of the bar. "No, MacLeod. They're always signed in blood. Big red letters that say Death'." He leaned on a barstool, and the slight lines which were so often around his eyes eased. "And the envelopes - they're always sealed with the Mark Of The Beast."

* * *

MacLeod had plenty of time on the airplane to consider Joe's humor. He had not found it funny, and his departure from the blues singer had probably been less than gracious. Every now and then, MacLeod was forced to admit that there was something about being immortal which made certain mortal perspectives incomprehensible to him. How could Joe joke about it? He was familiar with the concept of gallows humor, but this was different. It seemed to take the deaths of others so lightly. He closed his eyes against the memories of the slaughtered settlements Kronos had left behind him on his killing spree across Texas. But of course, closing his eyes only made the images more vivid. The man who had tried to take the bullets for his family, only to have them go right through him. The little girl's broken, abandoned doll, so like her own broken, abandoned body nearby. How different were they from the tribes Methos had helped to destroy thousands of years earlier? Small, isolated, largely unarmed, semi-nomadic settlements. People just trying to eke out a living in an unfriendly land.

MacLeod considered that he seemed to take the importance of life more seriously than did many other people. Any life, but mortal lives particularly so. He had to. He had to because... because ... Is that Scottish guilt I sense? MacLeod squirmed as if his first class seat weren't big enough for him. Because they would die when he wouldn't. Noblesse oblige, or something like that. He downed the rather weak Scotch which the airline served and held the little plastic cup up to the obliging attendant.

Joe had misinterpreted his question, anyway. He was curious about the Christmas cards because he was trying to get a feel for how seriously Methos took his one time conversion to Judaism. Not very, MacLeod was willing to bet. It was hard to imagine Methos taking any religion seriously. But something had spooked Methos, and MacLeod suspected it was something Grossman had said. There are no atheists in foxholes, popular wisdom claimed. How about in death camps?

Well, with a little luck, he would be able to ask Grossman about it soon. MacLeod obediently returned his seat back and tray table to the full upright and locked position for landing. It had not proved difficult to change his travel itinerary. He'd had to change planes in New York anyway.

* * *

Grossman lived with his wife and an apparent litter of children - mostly boys - in a brownstone in Queens. MacLeod was welcomed into a living room which was really a playroom in disguise. An immense entertainment center bearing a large video screen and a Sony Playstation dominated one corner of the room. Game cartridges, joysticks and other, less easily identifiable plastic weapons of virtual destruction littered the field of combat. One wall was a jungle of glass and plastic encased menagerie. Hamsters, snakes, and fish had permanent homes there, while a ferret and a gecko roamed freely around it all. "The children just love them," Mrs. Grossman beamed as she loaded MacLeod down with chips and Hi C. Under her watchful judgment, interrupted by a number of phone calls, the two little boys who were her nephews - great-nephews, really, she confided in a voice too loud for actual confidence - took out, and introduced the Highland warrior to, each hamster and snake. The fish he was permitted to merely learn the names of, and much excitement accompanied the hunt and capture of the gecko and ferret, both of which MacLeod eventually received with the grace such tribute deserved.

David was still busy in his study, which had its own door to the outside and which served, MacLeod gathered, as a private access to the doctor for his patients. No longer a practicing rabbi, David was now Mel Grossman, Professor of Judaic History at the Jewish Theological Seminary, and had a private counseling practice.

MacLeod did his best to reassure David's wife that he was well attended, and she consented to return to whatever was going on in the kitchen, with only an occasional appearance in the living room. MacLeod settled down to the serious study of the style of mortal combat known as Bushido Blade. The non great-nephews in the litter proved to be friends, enemies, and neighbors of the great-nephews, who actually lived with their parents next door. They were all self-proclaimed experts at Bushido Blade, as well as at a variety of other virtual combat styles. MacLeod did his tiny teachers proud, and was soon on his way to mastering the game. "Much too good for a grown-up," was the highest praise they would bestow, and MacLeod warmed to receive it. "I wonder if Richie would be insulted if I got him one of these," MacLeod mused.

"Mr. MacLeod, Mr. MacLeod!" Grossman bustled into the room, attracting children and nerf tennis balls. MacLeod rose from the floor, carefully saving his place in the game. Grossman shook hands enthusiastically with the Highlander, "I am so sorry to keep you waiting. You've met the children, I see."

"Please call me Duncan. And yes, I've met the children and the, uh, pets." MacLeod smiled. Encouraged, Grossman moved to the aquarium and wrinkled his nose at the fish. The tribe of little boys had dwindled somewhat while MacLeod had been engrossed, he noticed.

"Did Kevin tell you they're named for the twelve sons of Jacob?"

"Yes, but there seems to be one missing."

"Yes, this household is one fish short of a dozen." Grossman grinned.

"Naphtali! Naphtali's dead!" The younger great-nephew announced. "Joseph killed him!"

"You shouldn't name the dead like that, Bradley."

"Oh, it doesn't count with fish!"

"And we don't know the culprit is Joseph, remember. Innocent until proven guilty. We suspect Joseph because he's the angel fish," Grossman explained. "They have a reputation for aggressiveness. Properly Joseph should be the victim." Grossman twinkled at MacLeod. "But you can't always predict who will be criminal and victim."

MacLeod glanced sharply at the other immortal, but Grossman was off, helping his wife bundle up the remaining Bushido Blade instructors for an evening at the movies. Once the two of them were alone in the uncommonly quiet house, Grossman poured them both glasses of wine.

"You've got a very nice place here," MacLeod told him as he accepted the drink. It was not the decor he meant.

Grossman smiled a smile of grateful contentment. "To me, it is holy ground," he said, simply. MacLeod returned his smile and sipped his wine. He relaxed into the cushions of the couch, and regarded the altar of Bushido Blade. He could have one shipped to Rich. He could have one shipped to the barge, for that matter.

"I wanted to have the both of them here," Grossman said.

MacLeod looked up. Then he looked around. True, it was hard to imagine either Cassandra or Methos profaning this place with spilled blood. It was certainly more comfortable than the average church or cathedral. But it wasn't holy ground. "It may be too soon," he said.

"Maybe," Grossman said, "but Cassandra really needs to speak to him. And it's not a conversation for the telephone."

"Have you heard anything from him?" MacLeod asked without much hope.

Grossman gazed at him for a moment before answering. "Yes, he's in Paris."

"Paris!" MacLeod set his drink down and stood. He couldn't help it. He found he was still furious with Methos for disappearing and refusing to help Cassandra. The least the man could do was be in Bora Bora. Part of him was even envious. How did Methos clear out so easily, journals and all? Just changing residences took MacLeod at least a week. Methos had gone ahead of him to Paris! MacLeod wondered if Joe had known. He paced.

"Something wrong?" Grossman asked.

"It's just that ..." MacLeod stopped, wordless. What was it about the oldest immortal that irritated him so? Aside from the slaughter, torture, and terrorism, that is. The ferret appropriated the warm spot MacLeod had left on the sofa. That was it. "He's like a stray cat I used to feed. When you want him, he's not there, and when you don't want him, he's all over whatever you're doing and you can't get rid of him."

Grossman seemed to find this description of his friend very amusing, and after a moment, so did MacLeod. "You can just stop feeding them, you know," Grossman said, smiling.

"I know. But then they might starve."

Now Grossman wasn't smiling. "That's right," he said softly.

They were both silent.

"I thought he bolted because you wanted him to meet with Cassandra," MacLeod said after a moment, "I'm surprised he called you."

Grossman nodded. "I think you are right. I tried too hard to get him to come here. I even tried using you. I pushed every button I could think of."

"You must have hit one."

"Yes. They are both survivors of holocausts. He understands about the need to remember the dead - to bear witness to the world that these lost lives were real. I tried to show him Cassandra as that kind of a survivor. His obligation to her is his obligation to all the slain. 'He who saves a single life ...' Anyway, he cut me off and hung up. Then he gave me a rather apologetic call from France. At first I thought he wouldn't tell me where he was, but he did."

"But he wouldn't come here."

"No."

Bastard. He probably had to change planes here.

"I'm afraid I've been so concerned with Cassandra, that I haven't given much thought to his needs." Grossman looked regretful. "Killing is brutalizing to the killer, too."

MacLeod looked at him in open amazement. "You are too generous to him."

"Oh, Mr. MacLeod, are we not all entitled to a little such generosity? You didn't see him as I did, after the war."

This was jolting. You have not seen what we have seen. But it was too much for MacLeod.

"Could you say that of Hitler?"

Grossman's gaze turned hard, but MacLeod met it unflinchingly. The only sound in the room was the gentle bubbling of the fish tank. "Yes," he answered.

MacLeod sighed, moved the sleepy ferret, and reclaimed his seat. Let Methos have Paris. They didn't even have to see each other. "You said when I called that there was something I could help you with?"

"Ah. Yes." Grossman stood to pour more wine. "I want you to stand in for Adam."

"Stand in how?" MacLeod frowned as he accepted the refill.

"Are you familiar with the concept of role-playing?"

"Yes. I've been on the stage, too ..." He looked his question at the other man.

"This wouldn't have a script. You listen to Cassandra, and you try to react as you think Adam... Methos would."

Good God in Heaven. "With or without swords?"

Grossman looked exasperated. "No swords, just talking. Here. She has many things she needs to say to him. She needs to learn some things from him, too, but that will have to wait."

"Why can't you do it?"

"I have been. Now I intended to have her speak to him. Also, I have a role in this, as counselor."

"But, Grossman, Mel, I have a role in this too."

"I know you do. But we need someone else to be Adam, and she associates the two of you somewhat closely."

"She does?"

"Yes. If we can't get him, you're the next best thing."

Oh, Great!

"Will you do it? Tomorrow night? I know you need to get on to Paris, soon."

Well, for a chance to see Cassandra, talk to her, maybe explain some things ... Besides, it was awfully hard to say no to Grossman. Something gave Methos the strength to do it; MacLeod didn't have whatever it was. "Yes, of course I will."

* * *

MacLeod made himself a late dinner in Connor's kitchen. Connor's Manhattan penthouse was perched like a tower room above a guarded castle, there were so many levels of security to the building, but Duncan had been granted all the necessary keys and watchwords. He had no idea where Connor was, or when he'd be back, but Duncan had no reservations about making himself at home in his kinsman's place. Even with a standing invitation, there was no one else's home Ducan would treat so casually. They both came from a time and place where travelers left their homes well stocked with food and fuel, in case any fellow travelers should need it. And clansmen - well, it was unheard of to begrudge a clansman something he needed. Usually, he didn't even need to ask.

Duncan ate his dinner, thoughtful. In preparation for tomorrow night, Grossman had explained to Duncan some of Cassandra's dilemma. It seems that Methos had been an early experimenter in the science of brainwashing through torture. He also had long pre-dated the good Dr. Pavlov's experiments with conditioning. Some of that, Methos had himself alluded to when Grossman first came to Joe's bar. But the actual brainwashing was news. Methos had tried to force Cassandra to disbelieve her own perceptions and accept her master's version of reality. Most of it, Grossman had assured the almost nauseous MacLeod, Cassandra had overcome herself, with time, but some fundamental questions remained with her. And some of those questions pertained to her own worth and value. It was critical that she learn some truths from her one-time master. MacLeod would not be able to "role-play" any of that.

Connor expected to be gone a while; the heat had been turned off. The place was slow to warm. Duncan finished his meal and climbed into bed, for warmth. Automatically, he tested the draw of his katana before switching off the light. Video game samurai leaped and swung on the insides of his eyelids. "I will not dream of Texas," he told himself.

Instead he dreamed of the Titanic. It must have been the cold.

MacLeod and Grossman waited in Grossman's home for Cassandra to arrive. Grossman had dampened MacLeod's hopes of talking to Cassandra himself, as himself. He was to be Methos from the moment she arrived. The only other "rule" Grossman had given him was that any of the three of them could call a break at any time, at which time MacLeod or Cassandra would go with Grossman into his office, like fighters to their corners.

Cassandra arrived, Grossman ushering her in. She still wore her beautiful hair long, and her calf high boots and leather coat gave her an elegant, timeless effect. The power that entered the room with her was palpable. MacLeod stood to meet it. I'm Methos, remember, I'm Methos, he reminded himself. Well, Methos might have stood, too.

Alluring but aloof, Cassandra gave him one glance of recognition, then looked anywhere in the room except at him. She knew the rules, too. Grossman removed her coat, then led her into the sitting area of the living room. He seemed as on edge as MacLeod felt. MacLeod had the disorienting feeling for a moment that the other immortals were actually seeing Methos when they looked at him.

"Cassandra, Methos," Grossman said quietly. An introduction. Something nervous in MacLeod wanted to giggle at the charade. Should he offer to shake her hand? Uh, no.

Cassandra looked at him, and MacLeod watched the play of her features as she told herself to see her ancient master instead of the Highlander. The look she finally gave him was chilling. "Hello, Donnar," she said with venom.

MacLeod blinked, inexplicably frightened. Had she used the Voice? No, she had just put soul-chilling hatred into her normal voice. And what was Donnar? A name? A curse? He looked to Grossman for some guidance, but the man was impassive.

MacLeod collected his wits and croaked, "Cassandra."

Grossman sat, and MacLeod followed his lead. Cassandra didn't. She turned away, and MacLeod took the opportunity to give Grossman an uneasy look. Grossman gave him a tight smile and a nod for encouragement. MacLeod centered himself and gave some thought to his part. What would Methos do, or say? Something sarcastic? No, no, surely not.

Cassandra turned back. She seemed at something of a loss. She looked at Grossman in appeal.

Grossman cleared his throat. "Cassandra, you have, I believe, some things to say to Methos?" The words sounded contrived, but his ordinary, encouraging tone was a relief to MacLeod. His throat was dry, and he eyed the bottle of brandy Grossman had brought out. Properly, he thought wryly, he should ask for a beer.

Cassandra responded to Grossman, too. She swallowed and took a visible breath. She walked up to MacLeod's chair, her hands fidgeting. "I got over the rape," she began.

MacLeod went cold. He could only stare at her.

"Some people say you never really get over rape. Over the ...dehumanizing... subjugation of it. The destruction of all your illusions about yourself - about the world. But you can. The people who say that probably don't think in terms of centuries of recovery time. And I was determined not to let you and your 'brothers' mar my life."

Oh, this was going to be hard. MacLeod needed to call a halt, right here.

"Cassandra," he began.

"Shut up! I don't want to hear your voice! I don't want to hear your voice ever again!" Cassandra's own voice rang like a church bell.

MacLeod gripped the arms of his chair in shock. He fought an unexpected panic. Wait! I'm not Methos! He closed his eyes, trying to re-center.

He opened them again to see Cassandra still before him, breathing hard. "But tell me," she sneered, "how do I get over the murders? You killed every one of my tribe. My teachers, the people I loved, the people I hated ... My People!"

She spun away and strode to the entrance to the kitchen. MacLeod gulped air.

"Do you remember Pilebes, Donnar? Do you? How that boy worshipped you? How he lived to be your slave? Lived to serve you. Any attention from you, any, and he was in ecstasy." Still standing by the kitchen, she turned back to face the Highlander. "Well, he finally got your attention. Do you remember what you did to him, Donnar?"

What? MacLeod looked at Grossman, who merely shook his head. Cassandra stalked back toward him. Her normal contralto rose in pitch.

"I would have hated you for millennia, except I thought you were dead. A mercy, really, my hate was mostly dead, too. But here you are," she gestured at him, "alive still, and enjoying life."

"How do I make you pay for this?" Her voice began to quaver. "I am not to be permitted to take your head, so how do you pay?"

"Apparently, I have to forgive you, since I can't kill you. I have to do something... something has to give... I can't live like this. But I don't know how." Pale, Cassandra closed her eyes and swayed. Grossman was at her elbow in a second.

"Break," he said calmly. "Cassandra, come with me. "Mister..." he shook his head, exasperated with himself, "Methos, would you pour the drinks for us?" Without waiting for an answer, he ushered Cassandra into his study.

MacLeod stood on shaky legs. 'Break'. That's what I was supposed to say. Christ! He stretched and paced around the room in an effort to burn off adrenaline. He returned to the brandy and poured, all thought of beer banished. He'd go for the harder stuff, too. His hands, he was glad to see, were steady. Was Cassandra all right?

She looked much better when they returned. MacLeod risked an out-of-character smile at her as he gestured at the brandy and moved back to his chair. She waited for him to sit. Then she perched carefully on a sofa arm, one shapely booted leg swinging free. Cassandra may have disdained the brandy, but Grossman, MacLeod noticed, did not. She began again, in a controlled tone.

"It has been pointed out to me, recently," she glanced at Grossman, "that all immortals face the loss of their people, eventually. Given enough time, even the Clan MacLeod will cease to exist." She risked a slight, knowing smile, which was probably not meant for Methos. "I just lost my people all at once." She studied the floor, pausing.

MacLeod gave up all concern about whether, or what, he should be saying to play his part correctly. This stage was Cassandra's. Methos wouldn't say anything, either. If the man had a lick of sense, he'd be hiding under a chair. Or on another continent.

"Also, in the time I've lived, the world has seen atrocities to make the massacre of eighty-three people look like comic relief. I begin to see that it may be a bit self-absorbed of me to fixate on my own personal tragedy." Her beautiful eyes filled with tears, anyway. "Eighty-three people. Filuxa, the old man who loved owls, and Dristhas, the little girl who was going blind ..."

MacLeod closed his eyes, not hearing her list of the other people in her tribe. Little Deer's grandfather had been an old man who loved owls. A wonderful, laughing, practical joker of a man. When MacLeod had found his body, his neck had been twisted in a grotesque parody of the birds he admired.

MacLeod returned to the present in time to hear her end her requiem.

" ... you killed them all. And so many others."

Silence fell, a thick blanket on the room. She ran one long-fingered hand through her auburn hair. "Break," she muttered. She left alone for Grossman's study, taking her brandy with her.

Grossman was the first to move. He stood and gave MacLeod an encouraging smile. "It's going very well."

Alone, MacLeod rested his head on the back of the sofa chair, baring his throat to the ceiling. He felt numb, but not numb enough. He swallowed the brandy and poured some more.

* * *

"There are some things I want to know from you, Donnar," the surreal play went on. MacLeod struggled to overcome the lethargy with which he was now hearing her. "Some answers I need. But you... you are the master of lies. How can I believe anything you say? There is no oath you could take which I would trust you to keep. Grossman thought you might tell the truth to him for me, but I laughed at him and told him about the web of lies you wove at Actium. Remember that? Lies layered with truths, so thick no one could untangle them all. It was masterful."

"So, I would learn nothing from you if you were dead, and I can learn nothing from you alive. I will never have any answers," she mourned.

"Ask anyway, Cassandra," Grossman coached quietly from the sidelines, "think of it as practice."

"There's no point," she objected.

"We've been over this. Do it anyway," Grossman was firm. Cassandra looked back at MacLeod, and her dark expression raised hair all over him. The lethargy was gone.

"Will you swear to answer one question... one question - in all your long life - one question completely and utterly truthfully, Donnar? Methos?" As vile as she made "Donnar" sound, she made "Methos" sound even worse. MacLeod looked to Grossman, who nodded. MacLeod looked back at Cassandra and nodded.

"Say it," she demanded.

MacLeod cleared his throat. "I will," he promised.

"Did you win that bet?"

What bet?

Whatever it was, it was important to her. Her pupils were dilated, darkening her eyes, and her nostrils flared. MacLeod returned her look, feeling helpless. How could he answer? He looked again at Grossman. Grossman shook his head and made a negative motion with his hands.

Cassandra whirled away. "It doesn't matter. It means nothing. I could never believe you, whatever you said."

What bet?

Cassandra picked up a candlestick and twirled it in her hands. "You're still up to your old tricks, too, Donnar, aren't you." Her tone grew quietly menacing. "What you did to that Bond woman ..."

What? MacLeod frowned. Had she just ...?

"Found a 'Bond' servant again, did you, Donnar?" Her voice was mocking. "Duncan would like me to think that you've changed, but we both know better, don't we?"

Now wait just a moment!

"Cassandra," MacLeod warned, "leave Alexa out of this." How did she know anything about Alexa?

"Why?" she demanded. She may have been responding to him as Methos, but the warning was all his own.

"Because it's something you know nothing about."

"How do you know? I am a Seer, you know." She put the candlestick down and gave MacLeod her full attention. "He took a defenseless, dying woman away from her family ..."

Okay, they were definitely out of character, now. MacLeod was firmly in a character he was much more comfortable with. He did a fast review of all of his memories of Methos and Alexa. Was it possible he had put that delicate young woman into the power of a ... No! Thick steel doors of denial slammed down around the thought. Now he knew what Joe meant about his gut. This was not true.

"That's enough."

Cassandra faced him fearlessly. "All he had to do was keep her away from a phone, from help ..."

MacLeod stood, and with the action came the promise of more. "Cassandra," he repeated, pure menace in his tone, "leave Alexa out of this." He knew his physical presence could intimidate, but he seldom used that fact outside of combat. He used it now. The threat of violence had entered the house, Grossman's holy ground, and, God help him, he had put it there.

And he meant it.

"Mr. MacLeod, please sit down," Grossman said quietly.

MacLeod was not yet willing to speak rudely to his host, but neither would he back away from this until Cassandra understood that she had gone too far. He gave the other man a withering glare, a look which had affrighted many an adversary. He wasn't sure if it would work on Grossman.

Grossman froze, the tension in the room rising higher yet. Now the stage was all MacLeod's.

He looked back at Cassandra. Her face showed no fear; only thought. She seemed to be regarding MacLeod with interest only.

"Are you so sure, Duncan?" she asked, with no mockery.

Yes.

MacLeod had the sudden feeling that he was being manipulated. More subtly even than when Methos did it. But why? He couldn't pin it down, so he had to play it out.

"You never Saw anything about Alexa, or else you did and you are lying about what you Saw. Stop it, Cassandra."

For a long moment, Cassandra met his gaze. MacLeod blinked when, for a bare moment, he thought he was looking into a wolf's eyes. It was a test.

Grossman collected himself, literally inserting himself between them. "Cassandra, let's take a break, shall we? Mr. MacLeod, please sit down."

Cassandra nodded slowly, still regarding the Highlander with a thoughtful expression. Then she allowed Grossman to lead her to the office, holding MacLeod's unyielding gaze for much longer than was necessary. MacLeod remained standing until they were gone.

A test of my ... my confidence in him. But could she really value MacLeod's judgement that much? He had already told her he knew Methos had changed. But did I really believe it? He shuddered to think how easily he could have failed that test. But not over Alexa. No.

He looked around, feeling like he had desecrated something. He picked up a stray game cartridge and added it to the hasty pile beside the monitor, a mute apology to the gentle domestic spirit which resided here. But he wasn't sorry. He looked up into the unblinking eyes of the gecko. It had watched from a shelf, unaffected by anything the Highlander had done. MacLeod knew, with an arcane certainty, that the God of Jewish game room/menageries understood, and he had done nothing wrong.

He wondered wearily where the ferret was hiding.

Cassandra and Grossman were gone a long time. When they returned, MacLeod was sitting, waiting. Something in him had hardened. Cassandra may have sensed it. Her own manner was faintly contrite, and her story now took a curiously conciliatory turn. She stared at the wall as she spoke.

"I will tell you something, Donnar...Methos. Something interesting. Because I hope never to have to speak to you again."

"When you came to me in that cage you kept me in... in Bordeaux, you brought me food. It was Chinese take-away. I kicked it over and took some pleasure in refusing your gift. But I thought the oddest thought. I thought, 'He doesn't know I hate Chinese take-away.' And that made me think how little you knew of me, now. And then I thought, 'I don't know what he likes, either.' That thought scared me. Because, of course, there was a time when it meant my life to know exactly what you liked. So why should I think that thought? I am never going back to that time." She glanced at MacLeod, sidelong, then looked at the carpet as she continued.

"The truth is, when you came to me, and stayed with me, you were like a cool breeze blowing through Hell. Do you know why? Because you were the only one there who wasn't living in the Bronze Age." Her tone grew almost conspiratorial. "Kronos lit that place with fire, for pity's sake! Silas wanted horses to ride, and Caspian wanted slaves! It was like three thousand years had never happened!"

"But you..." She raised her gaze to meet MacLeod's. "You talked to me of Patty Hearst and Stockholm Syndrome. And when I ignored you, you prattled on about... everything. Books, TV shows, movies, music. I know you like Star Wars, but hated Braveheart. I know you like Queen and the artist formerly known as Prince, and that you secretly like opera, but you don't want MacLeod to know. You see Donnar? I was listening. I always learned my lessons well."

"Now you listen to me, and I will tell you something you don't know about me. Maybe Duncan told you I was a witch in Scotland when he was a boy. What I really am is a Seer in the tradition of the Lilithim. We are renowned for the Voice and the Sight, but the Sight isn't what everyone thinks it is. The future is not that easy to see, even for me. What I really do is see men's souls."

She began to walk as she spoke. Fascinated, MacLeod lost all concept of his role. Grossman looked equally ensorcelled.

"I say men, because that's who I'm best at. Like so many of the Gifts, this one requires certain ... conditions. I can see the soul of someone I am intimate with. My Craft taught me not to fear intimacy." Her tone turned briefly bitter. "You can have no idea what you did to me, Donnar, but I beat you in the end. You did not destroy me. I prevailed. I am a Master."

"But I'm not finished." Now Cassandra returned to musing aloud, staring again at the wall. "Intimacy is a relative thing. I saw Duncan's soul when he was thirteen with just a kiss. It doesn't take much when you are thirteen. His soul was a bright beacon of purity and goodness. I know goodness when I see it. And I know evil."

"But here is what I don't understand." She glanced back, briefly, at MacLeod. "This is what brought me to Mel Grossman to try to understand the good and evil in the world."

"When MacLeod came, and Silas was ready to take my head, I heard the click where your blade blocked him. When I looked up, at that instant, we three were joined in a kind of intimacy I can only call the imminence of death. One of us was going to die. I could have seen either of your souls then, if I hadn't been so frightened. Then it was gone. You challenged Silas and I saw what I thought never to see before the Gathering: two of the Horsemen fighting to the death. But it came back - that connection. It was back when you yelled 'You know nothing about me!'. I saw your soul, Donnar."

She looked at MacLeod.

"And it wasn't evil."

"I don't understand." Her eyes filled with tears again. "I know what you are - what you've done. Horrible, unspeakable things. How can you not be evil? Can a soul change it's basic nature? I know how evil looks. Your soul was... it had many, many layers. And it was full. Every nook and cranny of human potential was filled. The highest heights, the lowest depths. I've never seen anything like it. How old are you, really? How is it possible? It wasn't evil. And it was far more... more than I could know. You were right. I don't know you. And if you were anyone else, I'd be curious to try."

She turned away and addressed the fish tank through her tears.

"But I don't want to know you. You were a killer. You killed my people. Nothing can bring anyone back. Nothing I say, nothing you do. You killed them and they are gone."

* * *

Grossman and Cassandra were gone an even longer time. Bored and numb, MacLeod helped himself to the Playstation. His earlier skill had deserted him. He couldn't concentrate.

Grossman returned, alone. "Cassandra has left," he said.

MacLeod nodded. He had felt her absence. He was disappointed to not have the opportunity to talk to her, but he was relieved, too. Still not looking at Grossman, as he stepped through the process of ending the game, he said, "You've got another dead fish."

Grossman regarded him for a moment, then inspected the aquarium. He sighed, scooped out the floating corpse with a net, and left the room.

When he returned, MacLeod asked, "Did she tell you that before, about seeing souls?"

"No."

Neither of them said anything. Then MacLeod stood and Grossman brought him his coat.

"Thank you, Mr. MacLeod," he said.

"Duncan, please."

"Duncan. It went very well. Thank you." The atmosphere in the room was still stifling.

"You're welcome." MacLeod accepted his coat, and nodded toward the aquarium. "I'd watch that zebra fish, if I were you."

Grossman managed a look of mock horror over his own weary expression. "Surely you can't suspect Benjamin!"

MacLeod nodded solemnly. "Mark my words. In the end, there will be only one, and it will be Benjamin."

He was rewarded by Grossman's laugh. But he was glad to leave, and he was sure Grossman was grateful to have his home back.

* * *

Duncan sat in Connor's home looking out the window. He hadn't turned any lights on. Darkness was all around him, but before him was the glittering city, built by people long dead, and filled with millions on millions of living souls, who rebuilt it every day. People who would die and be replaced. Someday even be forgotten, like all the others. Somewhere in it there might even be an old man who loved owls.

For some reason, his face was wet. It was still wet when the sun came up.

* * *

MacLeod met Grossman for a final time the next day at Grossman's favorite Chinese food diner. They were both subdued. Grossman made a feeble joke about not inviting Cassandra to eat there. Short of sleep and broody, MacLeod only managed a weak response. Around them, the glittering city bustled about its business.

"How could he do those things?" MacLeod wondered aloud. He didn't expect an answer.

Grossman merely shook his head. He moved the snow peas around on his plate. "Mr. MacLeod..."

"Duncan."

"Duncan. You remember what I said about being generous to Hitler?"

"Yeah."

"I'm afraid... it wasn't exactly the truth."

I know. MacLeod only nodded.

Grossman went on, looking unhappy. "It's just that... he's my friend."

"I know." MacLeod smiled what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "He's mine too." God help me.

"He's fortunate in his friends."

"Yes, he is."

Neither man meant himself.

* * *

Methos's good fortune in that area had its lapses, MacLeod learned during the course of the following year. Methos's defense of the brilliant but dangerous Byron was disappointing, though MacLeod tried to tell himself that it shouldn't surprise him. He also tried to tell himself that he didn't owe Methos an apology.

He had been unable to avoid the older immortal completely, not when neither of them was willing to shun Joe's bar, and not when meddling Amanda felt for some reason that Methos's intervention was needed between MacLeod and Stephen Keane. But they did not exchange Christmas cards, ordinary or otherwise.

So it was winter again when MacLeod felt an immortal at his door and opened it to find The Witch of Donan Woods.

"Cassandra!"

"Hello, Duncan," she looked as beautiful and bewitching as ever. MacLeod ushered her into the barge, expecting she would make herself at home as she had before, at the loft. Instead, she stood, clutching a small travel case, as if uncertain of her reception. MacLeod took the case from her gently. "Cassandra, it's so good to see you." He smiled. The last time they had seen each other, he had been Methos, and she ...

She returned his smile, but there was something desperate behind her eyes. "Duncan, I just didn't know where else to go ..."

"It's all right." Whatever it is. "I'm glad you've come. Sit down, please. Drink?"

Cassandra slid onto the arm of a chair and sat quietly while MacLeod fussed. She spared a curious look for the Playstation as MacLeod saved and ended the game he had been playing. When he returned with glasses of wine, she had removed her coat and was looking stunning in a dark red, form fitting, calf length gown with a slit up one side. Her arms were demurely covered to the wrist, but very little of her shoulders and chest were. MacLeod paused to appreciate the effect. She rose to meet him and took one of the glasses from him.

"Now," MacLeod clinked her glass with his own, "what is it?"

Cassandra turned her head away from him, and the rest of her followed. "Methos," she said.

MacLeod's stomach lurched. "What?" he asked.

She kept her back to him, turning her head to speak over one elegant shoulder. "He wants to meet me, tomorrow. On holy ground. Here in Paris."

He does?! MacLeod was relieved and delighted. He set his glass down and put a hand on her shoulder. She obligingly pivoted under his hand to face him. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. She downed the wine all at once.

MacLeod took her empty glass and set it beside his full one in order to buy a little time to temper his reaction. Cassandra clearly was not delighted.

"Cassandra, that's ... good, isn't it?"

"I'm frightened," she whispered.

MacLeod took her in his arms and sat them both down before the fire. He couldn't completely stop the memories of how this magical, seductive creature had appeared to his adolescent eyes. Just holding her was still heady stuff for that inner adolescent. She leaned on his shoulder for a moment, then pulled away to look tearfully at him. "Why do I have to come to him?" she demanded. "I don't obey orders from him. Why does he get to choose the time and place?"

"Cassandra, it will be all right." MacLeod stroked her hair. "You wanted to talk to him, right?"

"No! I don't! I don't want to see him, talk to him, have anything to do with him, ever again!" She buried her face in his chest.

"Then you don't have to," he said firmly.

"Yes, I do," she mumbled. MacLeod decided not to answer that. He continued stroking her hair. She sat up again. "I have to talk to him at least once."

MacLeod nodded, wiping tears from her cheeks with his thumb.

"I know why he's doing this. He doesn't give a damn about me; he just doesn't want me hunting his head."

What?! MacLeod put a little space between them in order to look at her. Methos had used those very same words. Just what were her powers? His expression must have concerned her.

"What?" Cassandra queried. As well she might.

"Cassandra..." MacLeod struggled to put together what he had intuited. "He was your teacher, wasn't he."

"He should have been!" Fury formed on her face. "In any fair, decent world, he would have been! But the world was what they made it. What he made it! And it was only fair and decent to the strong."

"Oh, Cassandra..." MacLeod pulled her to him again, comforting himself. He grieved for ... for all of them. The obligations between teacher and student - it was as close as immortals came to parenting their own kind. Methos had betrayed that bond - and Cassandra wouldn't have even known enough to hate him for it. Not for many years.

"Will you come with me tomorrow, Duncan?" She gripped both his hands. "Please?"

"Of course I will. It will be all right, Cassandra." He kissed her then, wanting so much to comfort her in the way he knew best.

She proved more than willing to be comforted.

Some time later, he thought to mention, "No peeking at my soul."

"Too late," came her sleepy answer.

* * *

And even later still, or, early, over coffee and rolls, MacLeod said, "You should call Grossman."

Cassandra had been too apprehensive to finish even one roll. Tension spilled off her in waves. "It's the middle of the night there," she objected.

MacLeod covered her hand with his own. "Cassandra, this guy's been a ... a nightmare to you for a long, long time. Don't face him without talking to your therapist first." It felt odd to use the term to an immortal. Immortals generally had no access to real therapy. "Grossman won't mind. Give him a call."

"And you're still friends with him," she accused. MacLeod knew this tone; he'd heard it every day for more than a week while the two of them tried to track the Horsemen. And as much as he hurt for Cassandra, he was just not interested in going there anymore.

"And with you," he said firmly. "The phone's right here. I'll go for a jog. You call Grossman."

* * *

Out on the quay, MacLeod dialed Methos's number apprehensively, feeling like the world's biggest heel. This was the second time he had abandoned her under cover of a lie, in order to secretly talk with Methos. And look what had happened the last time. The man had better be home.

He was. "Hello?"

"Adam, it's MacLeod." He turned his back to the barge, as if that would somehow help.

"MacLeod?" Methos's tone was not unwelcoming, just wondering.

MacLeod didn't have time for beating around the barge. "Look, Adam, Cassandra's here, at the barge with me. She says you offered to meet her today and she wants me to come along."

A pause. Then, in a neutral tone, "And are you?"

"It's your party. Am I invited?"

There followed a long silence, and when Methos answered, even the cellular connection couldn't disguise the yearning in his voice. "Duncan," he said, "I wish you were on my side."

It hurt like a dagger through the heart. MacLeod practically staggered. I am on your side! That's why I'm calling you! That's what he wanted to say. What he heard himself bite out, was, "And I wish you'd never ridden with the Horsemen."

His pulse pounded in his ears.

"Do what you want MacLeod, I don't give a damn."

The connection, of course, went dead.

MacLeod stared for long moments at the modern instrument of torture in his hand, fighting the impulse to dash the thing to the concrete. Then he did it anyway. It shattered into splinters with a satisfying sound, and he stared at the wreckage until it all blurred together.

* * *

Methos stood at the top of the stone stairs which led up to the raised ground which was the garden. Behind him, eternal and impassive, loomed Notre Dame. MacLeod had to be the one to check the traffic as the two of them approached; Cassandra's gaze was riveted on the figure waiting for her. The blowing snow and a gray waving woolen coat gave Methos's form the look of an apparition. MacLeod's own feelings flip-flopped to see him there. Was this the man who had saved him from a Dark Quickening, or was this the bogeyman of generations of childhood fears?

Cassandra stopped dead, in the middle of the street, and MacLeod had to physically coax her to the safety of the sidewalk. It was then that he looked again.

Methos wasn't wearing a coat. He wore a long gray cloak, knotted at the throat and flapping around his form. What the hell was he doing?! MacLeod stared. Then he looked at Cassandra. She looked shocked, too, but she squared her shoulders and mounted the stairs. The apparition faded back and to the side, so Cassandra didn't have to come too near him as she reached the top. MacLeod followed, but she turned to give him a warning look. He stopped, looking up.

Two ancient pairs of eyes regarded him with identical cool hostility. MacLeod had never been more aware of the immense chasm of time which separated him from his friends. Neither of them invited him to cross it. For a moment he stood, awestruck by the thought of what these two had seen, had shared - even when they weren't sharing it.

Then he shook it off. "I'll wait down here," he suggested, as if it had been his idea.

Wordless, the witch and the myth withdrew, neither looking at the other.

Godspeed, my friends.

The problem was, he was cold. Methos couldn't pick a day when the shops were open? He considered getting back in the car. Scanning the curb parking, MacLeod spotted a familiar figure. Dawson! The Watcher was in plain view, leaning against Methos's Volvo. He gave the immortal a small wave. MacLeod joined him.

"You don't bother to hide any more?" he kept his tone friendly.

Joe grinned. "It so happens I am not Watching you right now. I didn't know you'd be here." Joe looked well prepared for the weather, wrapped in many layers; rosy and comfortable.

"What are you doing here?" MacLeod blew on his hands.

"Adam asked me to come along as his second. You want some gloves?" he produced a spare pair from some fold of wool. MacLeod ignored the gloves for a moment.

"His second!"

"Yeah," Joe gave the immortal a quizzical look. "It was a joke, MacLeod."

MacLeod frowned and considered refusing the gloves. Then he decided that would be foolish pride. "Thanks. Your joke or his? Did he say that?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Do you know what a second does?"

"Well, I guess they keep the weapons and, uh, what? Count off the paces?"

"They also are a guard against treachery, an alibi in court, and they handle discreet burials, should it be necessary."

Joe coughed. "Oh. Okay." MacLeod was gratified to see him look appalled. He dropped his smile as he looked toward the two figures in the garden. They were still visible, Methos leaning on a statue, Cassandra standing before him. Thank God for holy ground. Cassandra made an agitated motion with her arms. Methos seemed to shrink.

"What's with the cloak?" MacLeod asked.

"I'm not sure. Some idea of Grossman's, I think. A symbol or something. We bought it on the way here."

"I don't see why he wants to meet her in the garden. Half the island is holy ground. The cathedral would at least cut the wind. It's freezing!" MacLeod complained.

"Well, it is Paris's memorial to Holocaust victims."

Oh. True. MacLeod looked beyond the garden, toward the entrance to Le Monument de la Deportation, with its blood red inscription, Forgive. Do not forget. "Also," Joe gave MacLeod a conspiratorial look, "they can't talk very long in this cold."

MacLeod narrowed his eyes at the other man. "Joe, did you talk him into this?"

"Me? Are you kidding?"

MacLeod just looked at him. Maybe Grossman's waiting trick would work on Joe, too.

It did. "He just got really drunk at my place one night, after..." he paused, "after Byron. We talked a little, you know, about her. I said if I had to meet with my ex for some reason, I'd make damn sure it was on my terms."

"You have an ex, Joe?"

"It was an example, Mac."

They both looked back at the two dim figures. Cassandra as Methos's ex was a disturbing comparison. MacLeod returned his gaze to Dawson.

"He's fortunate in his friends," he quoted to the other man. He felt strangely envious.

It wasn't too long before the distant figures came closer, approaching the stairs. Cassandra was in the lead. MacLeod met her at the bottom of the stairs. He grasped her free hand with both of his own and tried to read her face. Methos waited at the top. Still on holy ground.

"Cassandra..." MacLeod began.

She gave his hand a squeeze in acknowledgment, but she kept her gaze on Methos. Then she backed up a few paces, taking MacLeod with her, giving Methos space to come down, as he had given her space to come up. MacLeod slid his hand up to grip the inside of her elbow. She was holding something in her other hand.

Methos descended slowly, watching them. He wasn't wearing the cloak. He paused at the last moment before departing holy ground. Cassandra looked away. MacLeod said nothing. He still gripped Cassandra's arm, unclear about whom he was reassuring. Then Methos left the bottom step and headed toward Joe, who had remained by the car.

"Adam!" MacLeod called.

Methos stopped and turned, remaining in the street as if he felt it was the safer ground. "What?"

"Where are you going?"

Methos scowled. He looked cold. Where was the cloak? "What's it to you? If I wanted any company, MacLeod," his gaze flicked toward Joe and the car, "it wouldn't be yours." Then he crossed the street and joined Dawson.

The barb should have hurt, but MacLeod was getting better at reading the oldest immortal. That had been for Cassandra's benefit. And he had told him where he was going.

"You can let go of me now, Duncan," Cassandra said softly, as the other two men drove away. MacLeod dropped her arm and turned to her. The gray material she held could only be the cloak.

"Cassandra!" He searched her face. "How are you? How was it?" Such clumsy questions. He hoped she knew what he meant.

She did. Her face crumpled into tears. MacLeod wrapped her in his arms and pulled her to him, turning them both slightly so that his large frame shielded her from the wind. It would have worked better had she been a smaller woman, like Grace. Or even Ann. As it was, the wind still whipped her long hair, making her look like the eldritch creature she was.

"He said he was sorry, and when I said 'just sorry?' he said English didn't have a better word. He can't even apologize without being an asshole!" she sobbed. The tears were reaction, not real fury. She conquered them after a moment and raised her tired emerald eyes to him. He kissed her forehead.

"What are you doing with this?" He indicated the cloak.

"He gets rid of it, and I get to burn it."

The light in her eyes was a fire that made MacLeod glad not to be the cloak. And I bet he feels the same way.

He brushed hair away from her face. "Were you able to say any of the things you said to me?" he asked.

"No," she swallowed, "not many. It was too cold."

Bastard. But the thought held nothing like its former venom.

"Did you learn anything from him?"

"Yes." She wiped her face, still in the circle of MacLeod's arms.

"Can you believe him?"

"I'll have to, if I'm to have any peace," she answered bitterly. Then her demeanor changed. She gazed into MacLeod's face, and caressed his cheek with a gloved hand. "Yes, Duncan, I believe him," she said, smiling through the remaining tears.

MacLeod's heart was too full for him to know what to say. He hugged her fiercely. "Thank you," was what came out. It wasn't spoken exclusively to her.

She draped the cloak over one graceful arm and grasped his face with both gloved hands. She kissed him long and soft. A shiver went down MacLeod's spine which had nothing to do with the weather. "Cassandra, Cassandra," he murmured into her ear, rocking them both in time to the music of her name, "let's go somewhere warmer."

"No." She pulled away a bit, placing her hands on MacLeod's chest. His own hands slid to the small of her back. She was still smiling. "This is my good-bye, Duncan. But I must tell you something very important."

"Could you tell me somewhere warmer?"

"No, listen. You remember the prophecy? That a Highland child born on the winter solstice, who has passed through darkness and light will defeat a great evil?"

"Yes." This again?

"Duncan, I thought it was Roland. But Kronos was in my dreams, too. It's just that he would be, after all ..."

MacLeod tried to follow her. "Are you saying it was Kronos's evil instead?"

"Yes. No. Both. Each one worse than the one before. Duncan," she took his face in her hands again, "these things come in threes."

Now she had his attention. "Do you see a third evil that I must fight?" he breathed. Not Methos. Please, not Methos.

She shook her head. "Whenever I try, all I see is red. But it's out there, my champion. Worse than Kronos. Be careful." Her eyes took on a slightly glazed look. "Trust not the dead - Touch not the child."

"What's that?"

She seemed to come out of the trance, or whatever it was. "I don't know what it means; I'm sorry." She smiled sadly. "I have to go now."

"Where?"

"Back to New York. I live there, you know." No, he didn't know. He should have realized.

"Cassandra, please..." please what? "Please be happy."

"I wish it were that simple. I'll try. Don't worry about me, Duncan. I'll be all right. And you," she looked serious, "go to your friend." She said the words with only a trace of disgust. "He was lying when he said he didn't want you."

As she backed away to leave, MacLeod slid his grasp down to her free hand. He kissed her gloved fingers with all the fervor of adoration. "I know," he said, and let her go.

* * *

Joe's was closed, the day being Sunday, but MacLeod looked for them there, anyway. The door was unlocked, but he felt no immortal in the place. Inside, out of the wet wind, he found Joe alone, draped over his guitar. The Watcher stopped playing and smiled at the Highlander as if he were truly glad to see him. Joe gave him that smile often, it seemed.

"Hi, MacLeod."

"Joe." Pensive, MacLeod moved toward the stage. "I thought he'd be with you."

"He was. He went for a walk. Help yourself to a drink." Joe began bridging through the opening chords to a number of songs. It sounded like a warm up. The room was cold enough, Joe might have literally wanted a warm up. MacLeod appropriated a bottle of Glenmorangie from behind the bar and sat where he could be Joe's audience.

He grew impatient. For once he couldn't lose himself in the smoky emotion of Joe's singing. He had things to say to the world's oldest man. How far would he walk in this weather? Outside the large windows which gave Joe's in Paris such a different atmosphere than Joe's in Seacouver, the snow and rain mixture combined with the automobile grime to create an ugly, sloppy slush. The stuff continued to blow and stick, making the City of Lights wet and wretched. Inside, on a table near the windows, MacLeod spotted a mug of beer. It was only half empty.

"Joe, is he coming back?"

Joe stopped playing and looked at him. He paused, then replied, "I think so. His car's here."

"Did he say anything?" MacLeod was hungry for news, and knew he had no right to it.

Joe sighed, placed the guitar on its stand, and began the slow process of unwinding himself from the stage tendrils and restoring himself to mobility. "No," he answered. "He's been scared to death about today, and I don't think he's over it."

It was with immense relief that MacLeod registered the presence of a nearby immortal. He was on his feet without thought, facing the door. It was then that he considered Methos might not choose to come in. He started for the door just as it opened.

Methos drew back at the sight of the approaching Highlander. He caught himself and allowed the door to close just behind him. MacLeod stopped.

"Well, look who's here," Methos almost sneered, and brushed past the other immortal. Angered, MacLeod grabbed his arm. Methos halted, his hazel eyes defiant. He didn't pull away, but MacLeod released him, ashamed of his reaction. Whatever he had wanted to say was gone now. Wait. No, it wasn't.

"I am on your side, dammit!"

"Sure you are." Methos picked up the half empty mug and took it to the beer tap. "That's why you had her at the barge and you had to second her. Since you're here, she must have dumped you; otherwise you'd still be in bed."

"Adam!" Joe cried. Neither immortal looked at him.

MacLeod narrowed his eyes, considering. "Scared to death," Joe had said. MacLeod had seldom known Methos to be this nasty. If this was Methos scared to death to face Cassandra, MacLeod certainly didn't want to meet Methos scared to death of, say...

Kronos.

MacLeod stopped breathing.

I killed a thousand. I killed ten thousand!

MacLeod sank into a chair. He stared at the stage for a long moment, oblivious to anything the other two men were saying.

When MacLeod finally looked up at the older immortal, he saw only a bitterly hurt, frightened friend. "I am on your side," he repeated, his voice as warm and earnest as he could make it. "That's why I called you. That's why I'm here."

"So, do I get to be a good guy again?" Methos's voice was acidic.

"Yes. Welcome back." MacLeod was serious, ignoring the tone, hearing only the words. And more.

"Who says I give a damn what you think of me?"

"You just did." MacLeod smiled.

Methos blinked. MacLeod could see him reviewing what he had said. Then Methos looked away.

What was it about this ancient, ancient legend that made MacLeod feel so damned protective of him? The immortal formerly known as Death didn't need anyone's protection. Actually, the immortal formerly known as Death looked exhausted.

If you stop feeding them, they might starve.

When Methos looked back, his angry mask was gone. He collapsed into a chair opposite MacLeod, cradled the beer in his lap, and studied it intently. Robbed of his armor, Methos's reaction might not be unlike Cassandra's. MacLeod was content to not see the other man's face for a bit. He finished another glass of the scotch.

"Did you tell Cassandra the truth?"

Methos frowned. "She had me swear on the honor of Duncan MacLeod. What was that about?" He didn't look up.

"I told her to say that. She wouldn't trust your honor. Am I forsworn?"

"No, of course not."

"Good." MacLeod considered how hurt he'd feel if someone wouldn't accept his word of honor. He had no idea how Methos felt about it.

"Don't you feel better now?" he asked, aware of how condescending he sounded. But a feeling rather like joy was beginning to fill his chest.

Now Methos looked up. "Oh, give it a rest, MacLeod!"

MacLeod grinned. It felt so good to be sparring with Methos again. He was abruptly flooded with the same gratitude he had felt when Cassandra said she believed Methos.

Outside, the cathedral bells tolled, calling the faithful. MacLeod stood. "Come on, let's go," he announced.

"Go where?"

"To church. We're going to go say thank you." MacLeod knew Methos could present a wide array of objections, but he didn't care. He also knew when he was right, and he had never met anyone who could swerve him from his course when he was right.

Methos looked at him like he'd lost his mind. "You want to go to mass?" he asked.

Yep. Come on." MacLeod took Methos's beer hostage, and headed for the bar with it.

"MacLeod."

"What?" Which objection would he pick first? MacLeod watched as Methos sorted for his first salvo. Methos took on the expression and tone of an aggrieved socialite complaining that she couldn't go to the party because she had nothing to wear.

"I haven't been to confession."

MacLeod walked back to the table, leaned on it, and looked the man in the eye. "Oh, I think you have."

Someone snorted, and it wasn't either of them. MacLeod remembered Joe. He saw Joe and Methos exchange 'What's gotten into him?' looks. Well, let them. MacLeod grasped Methos under one shoulder.

"I don't want to go to mass. They make you eat those tasteless biscuit things ..." MacLeod hauled him out of the chair, still protesting, "... and only the priest gets to drink anything."

"Yeah, well, mass is what's open right now." MacLeod put on his coat. Methos didn't have one; he'd given that cloak to Cassandra. The man must be unarmed. Had Cassandra made him suicidal? "Joe, you coming?" MacLeod had a vague feeling that Dawson was Catholic.

Dawson gave him a tolerant wave from behind the bar. "You say thank you for me, Mac."

Methos moved around MacLeod to rescue his beer. "You go to church. I am not going along to be your damn rosary."

Ouch. MacLeod chose his next words with extreme care.

"Then come along and keep me company?"

Methos regarded him with an unreadable expression. But his next protest was token, not final. "MacLeod, you can say thank you right here."

"I know. But I say it in church."

Methos thought a little longer, then drained his beer like a man preparing to leave. MacLeod breathed more easily and grinned again.

MacLeod enjoyed the walk to Notre Dame. He had a clear memory of his mother hauling his cousin Robert and him to church, holding one ear apiece, for some transgression or other. Methos played his part, objecting.

"MacLeod, have you no concern for my sensibilities? I'm a Jew."

MacLeod looked at him.

"For chrissake," he added.

MacLeod snickered. "I'm tired of worrying about your sensibilities. God's okay with it. He told me so."

"Oh, He did, did He?"

"Yep."

Methos shook his head. "You're scaring me, Mac."

MacLeod stopped in front of the cathedral and turned to face him. The crowds flowed by them on one side. "Adam, why is this holy ground?"

Methos looked at him like he was very stupid and needed to have things explained slowly. "Because there's a honking big cathedral on it, MacLeod."

MacLeod smiled, but pressed on, "Who decided to put a cathedral here? Men or God? Who makes ground holy, men or God?"

Methos squinted against the icy wind. His ears and nose were bright red. "If it's a theological debate you want, you're out of your league. Did I mention I was Saint Jerome?"

MacLeod snorted. "Oh, right." He decided to drop it. Methos was shivering badly. He led them inside.

The beautiful soaring arches of Notre Dame de Paris gave MacLeod a sharp pain, remembering how Tessa had loved the cathedral. Then his heart lifted as music echoed off the stonework of medieval masons whose architects had had skills beyond their time. Older even than MacLeod, it was probably a modern curiosity to the man at his shoulder.

_The highest heights, the lowest depths._

"Were you really Saint Jerome?" he whispered.

"Look him up," Methos whispered back, "you won't be so impressed."

The mass started. Although there was room forward for worshippers, the two immortals stayed standing in the throughway with the tourists and other onlookers.

_Thank you, thank you, thank you,_ MacLeod prayed with all his warrior heart and Scottish soul. What the elusive myth beside him prayed, only he and God knew.

The elusive myth beside him sneezed.

"God bless you," the crowd around them murmured, in French and some English.

Methos began weeping so hard MacLeod had to take him home.

The End.


End file.
